


Louder than Sirens

by trulymadlylarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Asylum Fic, Detective Louis, M/M, age gap, harry has multiple personality disorder, homophobia because this is the 1960's after all, louis is 25 and harry is 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulymadlylarry/pseuds/trulymadlylarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PERSONALITIES:</p><p>Harry - the "main" identity (himself).</p><p>Liam - the "sensible" identity.</p><p>Niall - the "carefree" identity.</p><p>Zayn - the "rebellious" identity.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. day one

**Author's Note:**

> PERSONALITIES:
> 
> Harry - the "main" identity (himself).
> 
> Liam - the "sensible" identity.
> 
> Niall - the "carefree" identity.
> 
> Zayn - the "rebellious" identity.

 

It's the summer of 1967.

Bright sunlight kisses Louis's skin as he walks along the pavement.  His heeled boots click along the deteriorated concrete, stepping over loose stones and cracks.  Occasionally, a stray weed or dandelion peeks through the fissured cement.  Skeletal trees border the side of the road, decaying wood tinted grey, bark peeling.  Abruptly, a flock of ravens swoop above Louis's head.  They caw as a warning, but he dismisses it. 

He looks up to see a tall fence, ten feet in height, topped with spiraled barbed wire.  Green vines crawl up the metal barrier and stretch along its exterior, a never-ending labyrinth of climbing plants.  They suffocate the perimeter of the hospital and obstruct Louis's view as he peeks through, eyes narrowed.

Louis wipes his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.  He squints past the ivy-clad fence, eyeing the red bricked building.  From the outside, it appears perfectly normal, save the cracked windows and rotting shingles.  As he looks up, he notices the windows closed with iron bars, similar to a jail cell.

Louis approaches the front gate.  He grasps the metal handle and tugs, but it doesn't budge— just rattles a little.  It's locked.  He shields his eyes with his hand and gazes upwards, searching for an employee.   

About twenty seconds later, a plump, dark-skinned woman in a white dress approaches the gate.  At first, Louis wonders if she's a patient, but then he sees the red nursing cross on her hat.  Her shoes pad along the dew-covered grass.

"You must be the investigator, yes?  Mr. Tomlinson?"

He nods.

"Lovely," she greets with a thick northern accent.  Her voice is staggered with labored breaths.  "I'm terribly sorry to keep you waiting out here in the heat."

"It's quite alright," Louis assures her with a charming smile.

The woman reaches into her dress pocket and extracts a large key.  She sticks it in the fence's lock and twists it, tongue pressed between her cherry lips with concentration.  With a loud creak that rattles Louis's nerves, she opens the gate.

Louis steps past the metal barrier.  He instantly feels chills and his hairs stand on end.  The nurse shuts the gate behind him and locks it.  He suddenly feels as trapped as a prisoner.

"I'm Cathy, the head nurse," she hums, brushing a strand of black hair away from her cheeks.  Her hair is curled in perfect ringlets that reach just past her shoulders.  Her nursing dress fits snug around her waist and bust. 

"Well, Cathy," Louis begins, clearing his throat, "thank you for opening the gate."

"Oh, no need to thank me.  It's my job, after all," she insists.  She nods towards the beaten path that leads to the front porch.  "Follow me.  I'll show you inside."

Louis walks behind cautiously.  Cracks and holes fill the porch's wooden panels.  The steps protest Louis's weight with a high-pitched squeak.  He reads the metal plaque above the gothic-styled door.

_Whittingham Asylum._

The heavy door opens slowly, its rusted hinges crying with neglect.  Louis paces behind the nurse with caution.  He instantly smells a strong whiff of cabbage from the nearby kitchen.  The main lobby is spacious with black and white tiled floors, all freshly polished, of course.  Thanks to the humidity, the floral wallpaper peels and rips beyond repair.  The iron-barred windows cast rectangular shadows of light throughout the room.

Wooden benches fill the foyer.  Louis spots a few patients sitting, some rocking back and forth, others talking to themselves.  They're all dressed in white, sort of like ghosts.  Perhaps that's how they're treated, too.  Louis hears a loud scream from the other side of the asylum, but he assumes that's normal, judging by how the nurses don't react. 

Louis feels a tug on his trousers.  Startled, he looks down to see a young woman, no older than twenty, crouching like a wild animal.  She's absolutely filthy, covered from head to toe with dirt and dust.  Her straw-like blonde hair is dry and frizzy.  As she grins, Louis notices the gaps in her crooked teeth.

"Meredith," Cathy scolds, grabbing her bony hand. "You don't touch strangers, understand?"

The frail woman stares blankly in response.

"Apologize to Mr. Tomlinson," the nurse persists, tightening her grip.

The woman, Meredith apparently, hisses through her jagged teeth.  Her spit splatters through the air.  Louis suppresses a scowl.  Strictly professional, he reminds himself.  This is a formal investigation.

Cathy wipes her cheek, scraping away the patient's saliva.  She shakes her head with disapproval.

"Alice!" Cathy calls out, her voice echoing.  "Bring Miss Meredith to her room, immediately!"

A young nurse emerges from the archway that leads to the foyer.  She eyes the ill woman with a stern glare before grasping her hand, yanking her off the ground.  Meredith struggles to find her balance, her knobby knees wavering.  Her body looks brittle and withered.

Nurse Alice mutters softly, "I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Tomlinson.  Meredith must've forgotten to take her medication.  Sneaks the pills under her tongue sometimes."

Louis pauses, unsure of how to respond.  "It's— I don't mind."

Alice bows slightly as an apology.  "Thank you, sir."

With that, she places her hand on the small of Meredith's back and guides her away.  The patient's tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, her hands twitching.  Her wild eyes flicker in all directions, absolutely maddening.  Together, they disappear into the dimly-lit hallway. 

After a few seconds of silence, Cathy clears her throat.  She smooths out the wrinkles in her dress, then nods her head towards the double doors to their left.

"Allow me to show you around, sir.  I can take you to the kitchen, if you'd like."

"That'd be lovely," Louis mumbles, trying to ignore the loud screeches echoing down the hallway.

They enter a large, rectangular room with dirty floors and dusty windows.  Wooden tables scatter throughout the cafeteria.  Patients sit around and stuff their faces with rotten cabbage stew and stale bread.  Louis notices a hunched woman eating her own hair, chewing on it.  Her dark eyes follow him like a magnet.

"We serve lunch from noon 'till two," Cathy explains, stepping through the dining area. 

Louis nods slowly.  He notices a few patients playing checkers on a round table, next to some discarded bowls of soup and bread crumbs.  One of them is a tall dark-skinned man, at least six feet in height, with scabs all over his body.  The wounds cover his flesh like stars in the night sky.  He has one bandage on his elbow, discolored from fresh blood.

"What happened to him?" Louis asks curiously, unable to tear his gaze away.

Cathy's mouth flattens.  "That's Johnathan.  He's a real kind man, but he likes to scratch himself.  He always screams about these bugs living inside of him, that he has to dig 'em out."

Louis frowns.  "Have you tried restraining his hands?"

"Of course, but he screams nonstop when we try to do it.  Always shoutin' about those damn bugs.  Gotta get them out, he says."

Louis watches Jonathan slide a black checker across the board, grinning widely.  He looks like a kind man, judging by his soft chestnut eyes and calm composure.  All of the patients appear to be nice, actually.  They're just in need of help.

"Do you mind if I take a few photos for my investigation?" Louis asks, grabbing his Minox camera with the leather strap.  He knows he doesn't need to ask for permission, as this is a court-mandated investigation, but he figures it might boost Cathy's trust in him. 

The nurse smiles.  "Take all the pictures you need, sir."

Louis removes the lens cap and aims the camera across the large cafeteria.  He snaps a few pictures of the patients eating lunch, slurping on metal spoons with chapped lips, exposing yellowed teeth.  He just wishes he could capture the _smell_ on film.  It's horrendous, like putrid vegetables and soiled milk.  He makes a note of it in his notebook.

"I'll give you a quick tour of the kitchen," Cathy prompts, walking towards the wooden double doors.  He doesn't expect to see a padlock and chain on the handle, but alas, there it is.  She grabs a rusty key from her pocket and unlocks it.

"Why do you keep it locked?" Louis asks as Cathy opens the door.  It makes a startled noise, like a cat's disturbed meow. 

"We keep knives in here," Cathy explains simply.  "It's dangerous."

They walk inside with silence.  She makes sure to shut the door behind them.  The air feels significantly more humid, fogged up with steam from boiling pots and whistling tea kettles.  The cooks are all dressed in black from head to toe.  The kitchen is cramped and crowded, filled with the sounds of silverware clinking and timers ringing.  Cathy guides him down a row of stoves and ovens, where the cooks prepare some more cabbage stew on the hobs. 

"We stick to a tight schedule," the nurse clarifies.  "We have the same meal plan every week.  It gives the patients a sense of order, you know?  A simple routine."

Louis gulps as they walk past a chef sawing a loaf of bread with a large knife.  He cuts it into thin slices and places them on a plate.  It seems like an improper diet— bread and watered-down soup.  He figures that's why they all look so malnourished.

"Would you like me to show you the patient rooms?" Cathy asks softly.

Louis grins.  "That'd be lovely, thanks."

Cathy nods and guides them down an endless hallway, illuminated with dull lights.  Everything appears so dark from the lack of windows.  He truly feels like he's six feet underground,  buried in a concrete coffin.  Perhaps that's how the patients feel, too. 

Louis snaps a few photos of the hall.  The corners are covered with cobwebs and streaks of dark mold.  The carpet looks grey, like ash, even though it was once a clean shade of white.

"This is the west wing, where we keep the more... independent patients," Cathy says, clearing her throat.

"Independent?"

"They're able to care for themselves, mostly."

Louis nods slowly and takes a picture of one of the doors.  There's a numbered plaque on the front, 247, with the last digit hanging crookedly on a bent nail.  A barred window rests on the far end of the hallway, glowing with sunshine in the midst of darkness.  It's the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.  It's freedom.

They pass by a young girl sitting on a bench, wearing a white dress and dirty slippers.  She stares at them with blank eyes, lips parted emotionlessly, like she wants to scream but physically can't.  It sends a shiver down Louis's spine.  He ducks his head and keeps walking forward, scratching some notes on his pocket-sized notepad.

_Mold.  Dirty.  Dark.  Smells like feces._

Cathy sighs softly.  "I know what you're thinking," she murmurs.  "We're not a _bad_ facility, Detective Tomlinson.  We're poorly funded, but we care for our patients the best we can.  It's all a matter of money."

Louis doesn't respond.  When he first received this case, he didn't know what to think.  A few former patients had made claims of abuse, neglect, and poor living conditions at Whittingham Asylum. The police didn't take the statements seriously until someone with a healthy mental capacity backed them up.  There was a report from woman who visited her brother, a thirty-two year old with schizophrenia, and witnessed patients being dragged by only their hair.  Thus, they hired renowned Detective Tomlinson to tackle a week-long investigation of the asylum.  He would stay seven nights at a nearby hotel and spend his days interviewing employees, gathering evidence, and searching for any signs of mistreatment.

He sighs and takes another photograph of the creepy corridor.  He spots a painting of a sunflower hanging on the wall.  It's a lame attempt to brighten up the dull atmosphere.  One patient, an older man, stares up at the painting with deep concentration, not saying a word.  He doesn't blink.  He doesn't speak.  He just watches it attentively, as if it's an animate object holding him hostage.

"Would you like to meet one of our patients, sir?" Cathy asks, pausing in her tracks.

Louis nods eagerly.  "That would be great, actually."

"Alright, then," she mumbles softly, turning towards one of the rooms, number 238.  The door is cracked open a few inches, giving off the false illusion of privacy.  Cathy doesn't bother knocking.  She just opens the door further and walks inside, forcing a smile onto her lips. 

The room is smaller than Louis anticipated.  It's simplistic, too, with a small bed, steel toilet, and filthy sink.  The floors are composed of square white tiles, and the bricked walls are cold and grey.  The bed rests next to the iron-barred window, covered up with a scratchy blanket.  A single pillow sits lopsided near the wooden headboard. 

A young boy sits on the hard floor with a leather-bound journal in his lap, scribbling with a black pen.  The journal is intensely aged, filled with scratches and rips and tears.  He doesn't acknowledge Cathy and Louis.  Instead, he continues writing with his tongue bitten between his pink lips.  His chocolate curls drape over his eyes like a curtain.  His fingers are lanky and long, like the rest of his body, and his nails are bitten down to short nubs.  He wears a white gown that falls mid-thigh.  His feet are bare, leaving his dirty soles exposed.

Louis clears his throat.  "Hello."

The boy looks up timidly.  His irises are a dark shade of green, like rainforest moss.  His pale skin resembles delicate porcelain.  Judging by the agony in his eyes, this boy has endured an immense amount of pain.

"Don't be rude, Harry," Cathy says sharply.  "Introduce yourself."

Harry blinks up at the detective.  His throat bobs.  "Hi," he croaks.  His voice is deep and gravely, like it doesn't belong to this fragile young boy.

"I'm Detective Tomlinson," Louis says, crouching down slightly.  "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Harry's lips tremble nervously.  "Am I in trouble?"

Cathy sighs at length.  "No, Harry—"

"It's Liam," the boy interrupts, pinching his eyes with frustration.  "My name's Liam."

"Your name is Harry," Cathy corrects stubbornly.

"But I'm Liam."

"No, you're not."

Harry doesn't respond.  He just flips a yellowed page in his journal and starts writing again.  His handwriting is scribbly and messy, like a child's. 

"Can I speak to him privately?" Louis asks, raising his eyebrows.

Cathy frowns.  "I'm not sure if that's a good idea, sir.  He can be quite dangerous," she whispers, as if Harry can't hear her.

Louis scoffs.  "He's just a kid.  I think I can handle him."

"I'm nineteen," Harry blurts out.

"No, you're only eighteen, Harry," Cathy says boredly, as if she's said this phrase a thousand times. 

"I'm Liam and I'm nineteen."

"No—"

"Please, Cathy," Louis interrupts.  "Could you give us some privacy?  I can't do a thorough interview unless we're completely alone.  The police told you to follow my instructions, correct?"

The nurse frowns, placing her hands on her wide hips.  "Five minutes," she chirps.  "Holler my name if you need anything."

Louis nods to show his gratitude.  With that, Cathy exits the room and leaves the door cracked open.  So much for privacy. 

After a few seconds of silence, Louis sits down next to the curly-haired boy, crossing his legs.  He continues to scribble in his notebook.  Louis glances down at the page, watching the smudged ink and curly letters.  He's writing about nature, of all things, and the beauty of being outdoors.  Louis wonders how he finds inspiration in this tiny cage-like room.

"So, you like to write?" Louis asks, trying to make him more comfortable.

Harry pauses and places his pen in the crease between the two pages.  "I like to do a lot of things."

"Like what?"

Harry shrugs.  "Depends on the day, I guess."

Louis hums attentively.  He watches as the boy plays with the hem of his gown, picking at the loose threads and faded material.  "So listen, Harry—"

"Liam."

"Right, Liam.  I was wondering if we could chat about your life here."

Harry remains emotionless.  "Okay."

Louis smiles.  He removes his recorder from his pocket and sets it on the floor.  He presses the button with the red circle to start the session.  The tape starts to turn inside in a circular motion, purring like a cat.

"Firstly, how long have you been living here?"

The boy shrugs.  "A few years."

"During that time, have you ever seen any mistreatment against yourself or other patients?"

"No."

"No?"

Harry shakes his head.  "No, I haven't."

Louis doubts it, but he nods anyway.  He should've anticipated this.  People who face abuse usually don't like to admit it to strangers, let alone on tape. 

"Are you telling me the truth, Ha— I mean, _Liam_?"

"Yes."

"You can trust me—"

"I don't want to talk any more," Harry grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.  "I wanna be alone."

Louis blinks in stunned silence.  "Did I say something wrong?"

"I want to be _alone_ , Detective."

    And it's not like Louis can _force_ Harry to do an interview, so he shuts off the recorder, puts it back in his pocket, and stands up from the dusty floor.  He brushes off his knees and straightens his jacket.  He looks back at the shy boy who's already scribbling in his notebook again.

    "Thank you for your time, Liam," Louis says, coughing awkwardly.  "It was nice to meet you."

    The boy doesn't respond.  He doesn't even give him a wave or a glance.  So Louis leaves feeling more confused and clueless than before.  He walks out of the room to find Cathy sitting on a wooden bench with her legs crossed.  She smiles widely.

    "That was quick," she notes, standing up and flattening the creases in her dress.

    Louis just shrugs.  "He didn't want to talk."

    "Doesn't surprise me.  When Harry takes on his Liam personality, he becomes quite shy."

    Louis raises an eyebrow.  "Liam personality?"

    "He has dissociative personality disorder.  Basically, he thinks he's four people: Harry, Liam, Zayn, and Niall."

    "Oh," Louis says, unsure of what to say.  "So if he's all those people at once, what's his _real_ name?"

    "Harry," Cathy explains, smiling softly.  "He's truly a lovely boy when he's himself.  He's sweet and funny.  I never get tired of his silly knock-knock jokes."

    "What about his other personalities?"

    Cathy's smile fades away.  They start walking towards the opposite end of the hallway.  They stand side-by-side, passing by countless rooms, wandering patients, and nurses. 

    "His Niall identity is... complicated.  He's happy-go-lucky, but sometimes, he likes to have _too_ much fun.  He can be a bit difficult to control."

    "And what about Zayn?"

    Cathy sighs quietly.  "Zayn is the most dangerous one.  He likes rebelling and causes the most trouble.  He rarely comes up, but when he does, it's... bad."

    Louis chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.  "Do you think he'll open up to me?  I'd really like to interview him."

    Cathy bobs her shoulders in a silent laugh.  "I wouldn't count on it."

    Louis falls into state of silence.  He feels completely consumed by his surroundings.  Everything seems too overwhelming— the sights, the smells, the sounds.  He didn't expect this investigation to take such a toll on his well being. 

    "Would you like to see the courtyard, Mr. Tomlinson?"

    Louis nods numbly.  He follows like a shadow behind the head nurse, lost in his thoughts.  He feels hypnotized by Harry's green eyes.  He seemed so gentle, so fragile, so secretive.  He couldn't imagine someone so lovely being capable of such horrible things. 

    They come across a beautiful stain glass door that opens up to a rectangular courtyard.  The green garden is vibrant and filled with various flowers and shrubs.  There's a rose-covered arch with green ivy above a stone bench, where a young blonde girl sits with another patient, reading a children's book out loud.  The garden looks like another world.  Compared to the rest of the asylum, this is Heaven. 

    "As you can see, our patients are very happy living here," Cathy assures, nodding towards the blonde girl.  She's giggling as she turns the page of her book.  "It's just a shame that all these false accusations were made about us.  I can assure you that we treat all of our patients with respect."

    Louis bites his tongue.  He doesn't want to argue, especially on the first day of investigation.  He knows this asylum has something darker, something deeper, something sinister.  He can feel it in his bones.  He can sense it in the tremble of Harry's voice. 

And he can't wait to unravel the truth.


	2. day two

For breakfast, the kitchen staff serves grey, lumpy oatmeal and sour milk. The patients all crowd around wooden tables, stuffing their faces like pigs at a slop trough. Despite the barred windows, which leave rectangular illuminations on the linoleum floors, the dining area is bright and radiant. Some of the patients are freshly-showered with wet hair and damp clothing.

The detective, Mr. Tomlinson, moves through the cafeteria silently and snaps photos of hungry patients. He aims his camera at an older man eating oatmeal with his bare hands, disregarding his silverware. His hands are bony and wrinkled with bitten, dirty nails. His teeth are rotten and jagged and filled with random gaps. His blue irises look soulless and empty, so pale they're almost white.

Louis can't help but feel guilty. That morning, he ate French toast, a blueberry muffin, and hot tea as part of his hotel's complimentary breakfast. He knows these patients would do _anything_ for a taste of something so delicious. As Cathy said, their cooks stick to a strict schedule of routine meals. He can only imagine the blandness of repetitive flavors.

Upon the police's request, Whittingham Asylum agreed to let Louis roam freely throughout their facility, so long as he follows a set of rules. For one, he cannot enter a patient's room without consent. Secondly, he cannot interfere with any treatment or drug administration. And lastly, he is prohibited from establishing unprofessional relationships with patients.

He jots down some observations in his pocket-sized notebook, accidentally smudging the ink across the thin paper. He sighs and tucks it back into his trousers. He takes another picture of the cafeteria, capturing a dozen or so patients with chunky oatmeal and half-empty glasses. A younger girl, probably in her late teens, is twitching and blinking rapidly, as if her body is surged with frantic electricity. An older man sits next to her, with medium-brown skin and hazel eyes, talking to himself. He's muttering something about needing to run some errands, to pick up some eggs at the store and drop off a letter at the post office. But Louis's the only one listening to his personal dialogue.

After seeing the cafeteria, Louis walks through the east corridor, where the "dangerous" patients reside. He knows he should feel hesitant, maybe a little afraid, but he figures he should be more intimidated by the faculty than the patients themselves. They seem harmless, like silent ghosts who sulk through dark, moldy hallways. The nurses, on the other hand, always have cold and detached expressions, as if they feel no remorse or empathy. That lack of emotion, Louis decides, makes him most fearful.

He quickly spots a girl sitting on a wooden bench, rocking back and forth. Her bony arms are restrained with a straitjacket, and her words are muffled by a dirty cloth covering her mouth. Louis stares at her blankly, not knowing how to respond. Her black hair is frizzy and tangled with knots, reaching well past her shoulders. Her Asian skin has lost its natural glow in the hallway's dark, dull lighting. Her eyes flicker frantically, nervously, fearfully.

Louis glances around in search of a nurse. He can't leave this poor girl alone, restrained, sobbing uncontrollably. Perhaps one of her caretakers forgot about her.

The detective gulps nervously. The rest of the hallway is completely empty, save the cockroaches and spiders crawling up the white walls. The girl on the bench watches him desperately, with pleading eyes and softened whimpers. Her foot is connected to the bench with a metal chain and cuff, as if she's a prisoner.

He approaches her slowly, cautiously, with his hands held outwards in submission.

"Hey," he greets quietly. The girl inhales sharply through her nose, unable to speak with the cloth over her chapped lips. "I'm Louis Tomlinson, an investigator. Do you want me to fetch you a nurse?"

The girl shakes her head feverishly and widens her eyes. She thrashes in her seat with fear. Louis takes a startled step backwards.

"Don't be afraid," Louis hushes, lowering his voice. The girl composes herself again and furrows her brow curiously. "I won't hurt you."

Abruptly, a nearby door rips open. A nurse stands there in a white dress, placing her hands firmly on her hips. Her thin, pink lips are pressed into a thin line. Her pale face is overwhelmed with wrinkles and dark moles. She stares at the girl on the bench for a few seconds. She looks up fearfully, whimpering into the dirty cloth that's wrapped around her neck, covering her mouth.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tomlinson," the nurse says sharply, clearing her throat. "What do you think you're doing?"

Louis straightens his posture, tugging once on the hem of his jacket. He cocks an eyebrow in confusion. "Pardon?"

"I said, _what_ do you think you're doing?" the nurse repeats, grabbing the girl's shoulder. She pulls her up from the wooden bench. Her startled knees shake weakly as the chain yanks on the foot of the bench.

"I— I was just trying to help, ma'am," Louis defends.

"Your job is to perform an investigation— not interfere with our patients' care," the nurse scolds, pointing a finger threateningly.

"I was just asking her if she needed any help."

"What she _needs_ is solitary confinement, which is why we left her out here in the first place. She stabbed another patient with a fork this morning in the cafeteria, so we decided to restrain her and let her think about her actions," the nurse rambles on, staring at Louis with burning hatred. "You may _think_ you're helping these patients, but you're only interfering with their treatment, sir."

Louis's face goes blank with surprise. "I apologize, ma'am. I thought a nurse just left her here, alone, tied up like an animal."

The black-haired girl trembles in the nurse's grasp, wet tears dripping down her dirty cheeks, leaving stains of clean olive skin in their paths. There's a damp patch of saliva forming over the cloth on her mouth, turning it a dark shade of blue. Her eyes are overflowing with fear.

"I didn't just leave her out here in her lonesome, Mr. Tomlinson," the nurse snaps back. "I was supervising her from this room."

She uses her free hand to prop open the nearby door, where a grimy window is cut into the wooden frame, giving it an angled view of the bench. Inside, Louis spots two patients lying on beds. A boy with curly blond hair and tanned skin is staring at them, blinking, lips pressed into a frown. His thin, hole-filled blanket is pulled halfway up his body. The other patient is a red-headed man with cloudy eyes, almost like milk. Louis thinks he might be blind, judging by the way he casts his empty gaze in multiple directions.

Louis clears his throat. "But don't you have special rooms for solitary confinement?"

"Our asylum is beyond carrying capacity, sir. Most of our treatment areas were converted into more bedrooms," she explains.

"Then why don't you expand the building?"

The nurse barks up a one-syllabled laugh. "As if we could afford to rebuild this place. We can barely afford new gowns and shoes for our patients! The government takes all our funds," she rants, snarling like an angry dog. She jabs her finger into the notepad in Louis's hand, where he scribbled about the asylum's conditions. "Write that down in your bloody notes. Perhaps the judge would love to hear about our financial problems." Her voice is drenched with bitter sarcasm.

Louis gulps, not knowing what to say. He settles for a quiet, "I'm sorry."

She nods in response and tilts her head towards the opposite end of the hallway. "Just carry on with your investigation, sir. I'm sure you have plenty of ground to cover."

Louis tries to ignore the way the dark-haired girl is staring at him pleadingly, like he's her last shred of hope. Her only savior. Her eyes are still overflowing with tears, clumping her eyelashes together. The nurse continues to grip her shoulder tightly, holding her still, as if the chains and straitjacket weren't enough restraint.

"Take care," Louis says softly, nodding at the nurse and patient.

With that, he rips his gaze away and paces down the darkened corridor, lined with metal doors and barred windows. This asylum makes him feel a certain emotion he cannot explain. Depression, perhaps, or maybe plain gloominess. The patients who roam these halls in white gowns, guided by aggressive caretakers, are forgotten souls. Louis hasn't seen a single parent or family member visiting since he began the investigation.

He rubs a hand down his face. He needs to unwind, to relax, to bring himself back to his normal headspace. He passes by a large glass door that leads to the grassy lawn behind the asylum, surrounded by a tall fence and barbed wire. There's a rusty swing set, a table with board games, and even a basketball hoop next to a slab of concrete. However, it's completely empty. Perhaps the patients don't care about fun or amusement anymore. Their lives have been turned into a mindless routine of bland food, orange pill vials, and suffocating captivity.

Louis sighs and continues down the endless hallway. He listens to the sound of his clicking footsteps, intermingled with distant cries and blood-curdling screams, which have somehow become "normal" noises in the asylum's atmosphere. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a metal sign bolted to the wall. The words are scratched and faded, barely readable, so he squints with concentration.

_Our mission is to treat, rehabilitate, and cure the mentally ill with honesty, integrity, and responsibility. Please report all concerns to the main office._

The detective pulls out his camera and snaps a picture of the sign. It seems out of place amongst the cracked windows and tiled floors, which probably haven't been swept in weeks, judging by the dirt and dust collecting on Louis's shoes. He wraps the Minox strap around his neck so the camera hangs near his chest, within his grasp at all times.

He walks towards the familiarity of the west wing. Here, some of the patients roam around freely. They're more trustworthy, more independent, less "crazy." Just barely straddling the line of insanity. Unable to fit into society, yet far too conscious to be a mental prisoner.

Louis sees the old man staring up at the sunflower painting, just like he did one day prior. He doesn't blink, doesn't twitch. He just stares with his lips parted. The detective feels a shiver ripple down his spine as he walks past him. He decides not to ask him any questions, in fear of upsetting another nurse.

"Mr. Tomlinson," a feminine voice says behind him, causing him to turn around on his heel. Cathy stands a few yards away with a grin on her face.

"Hello, ma'am," Louis greets, clearing his throat.

"How's your investigation coming along?"

"Oh, it's fine," Louis says, not wanting to bore Cathy with the details.

But to be honest, it's not fine. It's far from fine. It's already the second day of his week-long investigation, and he has yet to gather any substantial evidence of neglect or abuse. He feels completely helpless. He can't speak to any patients without consent from the staff because he may "interfere with their treatment and recovery," which sounds like the weakest excuse in all history. This way, the nurses can pick and choose whom Louis interacts with, whom he interviews and speaks to. It's easier to manipulate him.

"Well, let me know if you need anything," Cathy insists.

Louis gulps. "Actually, I was wondering if I could interview a patient."

"A patient?"

"Yes. Obtaining quotes from patients is a requirement for my investigation, ma'am. I know the asylum has guidelines, but this is a court-mandated examination."

Cathy pauses. "Right. You can interview Miss Jane, room 276, if you'd like."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Room 276?"

She nods. "Jane is one of our most stable patients. You shouldn't have any issues with her. Feel free to ask her any questions you'd like."

Louis bites his lip. "Thank you."

He quickly scurries to Jane's room. Her door was left cracked open a few inches, allowing him to peek into her space. It's a square-shaped room, much like Harry's, with the same thin mattress and bricked walls. He spots the dark-skinned girl sitting at the foot of her bed, staring out the window. She has coarse black hair that falls to her shoulders in perfect coils.

Louis knocks on the door twice before entering. Jane immediately snaps in his direction. Her eyes are chocolatey and round, like brown buttons, and her skin is smooth and free of imperfections. Her plump lips are glossy with saliva. She appears to be in her late-teens or early-twenties.

"You must be Mr. Tomlinson," she notes in a flat, monotone voice.

He gives a timid smile. "Yes. How do you know my name?"

"Well, all of the girls here can't stop talking about the fit detective roaming the halls," she giggles, blushing. She stands up from the bed. Her thin, cotton gown falls just below her knees. She shakes Louis's hand loosely. Louis can't help but notice a coin-sized burn scar on her forearm, pink and puffy. He decides not to mention it.

"I'm Jane Elliot," she says sweetly.

"It's nice to meet you," he greets. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"Well, certainly," she murmurs, sitting on the wooden bench in front of the window. Louis sits next to her and extracts his notepad from his pocket. He scribbles her name messily at the top of the page.

"Well, firstly, how long have you lived here?" Louis prompts.

She hums thoughtfully. "About three years, since I was fifteen years old."

"Fifteen? That's young."

"Well, yes. I was diagnosed at age thirteen with bipolar disorder."

"Bipolar disorder?"

"Violent mood swings of mania and depression— constant ups and downs. My parents brought me here after I took my baby sister and ran away for a weekend. It was an act of silly teenage rebellion, I guess, or maybe I was just feeling energetic and limitless. I don't really remember."

Louis jots _bipolar_ in his notebook, trying not to smudge the blue ink with his hand. "I see. Could you tell me about Whittingham Asylum? Do you feel safe here?"

"As safe as I'll ever be," Jane explains, staring down at her lap. "Usually, my mood stays stable with lithium pills, but sometimes I have a manic or depressive relapse. I can hurt people if I'm out there."

"Out where?"

"In the real world. In society."

Louis nods slowly. "So you've never seen any abuse or mistreatment?"

Jane instantly shakes her head. "No, absolutely not."

"You can be honest with me," Louis assures, dropping his voice to a quieter, softer tone. "You can remain anonymous, if you'd like."

"I _am_ being honest with you," Jane insists. "I feel safe here. I can't hurt anyone if I'm locked up, and nobody can hurt _me_ , either."

"Then why do you have a burn on your arm?" Louis asks suspiciously.

She hesitates before moving her hand towards the scar, lightly dusting her fingers over the swollen patch of skin. "That's none of your business, sir."

"Actually, it is. It's my job to make sure patients are safe here."

She sighs at length. "Well, if you must know, I burned myself on a candle."

"They light candles here? At an asylum filled with mentally ill people who have tendencies to hurt themselves?" Louis asks rhetorically.

Jane opens her mouth to say something, then closes her lips. She huffs in frustration. "It was during a power outage."

"I see," Louis says, even though he doesn't actually believe it.

She can sense the doubt in his voice. "I feel safe here, sir. This is my home."

"But are you _happy_?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you happy with your life?"

"Well, that's a silly question."

Louis frowns. "Happiness is important, though, yes?"

Jane blinks in surprise. "I suppose it is."

"Well, then I must go back to my original inquisition— are you happy?"

Jane fiddles with her bony fingers, trying to hide her growing nervousness. "I'm ill, Mr. Tomlinson. My happiness isn't important."

Louis chews on the inside of his cheek. He wishes he could tell her otherwise. He wishes he could convince her that her happiness is valuable, that she deserves to live a healthy, safe, and joyful life. But he doesn't know how to verbalize his thoughts, so he just tucks his pen behind his ear and stands up from the bench.

"Thank you for your time, Jane," he says, nodding with gratitude.

Jane smiles widely. "You're welcome, sir."

Louis closes his notepad and walks out the door without another word. Goosebumps pepper his skin as he comes in contact with the hallway's chilly air. The atmosphere feels dark with minimal lighting. Cobwebs and clusters of mold cling to the walls and fill his nose with a dreadful stench.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and begins walking towards the courtyard. He needs to clear his brain, to gather his thoughts and analyze his notes. He needs to make sense of this tangled mess. Just one day prior, he was entirely convinced that Whittingham Asylum harbored dark secrets and ghastly abuse. Now, however, he isn't so certain. None of the patients have admitted to witnessing any sort of neglect or mistreatment. It's making the detective's head spin in confused circles.

He sighs with relief when he finds the stain glass door, reflecting geometric patterns of colour on the tiled floors. He grips the metal handle and opens it, releasing a loud squeak. The scents of fresh air and green grass fill his mind with relief. Vibrant flowers and trimmed bushes surround the perimeter of the courtyard. The archway above him is intertwined with green vines and red roses.

A pathway of round stones leads to a fountain, which sprays clear water from the top and trickles down ridges of smooth concrete. A mosaic of blue glass lines the bottom of the basin, twisting in beautiful swirls. The grass hasn't been cut in a while, judging by the way the green blades tickle Louis's ankles.

"Sir?"

Louis jolts with surprise and twists around to see Harry standing there in a white gown, all pigeon-toed and shy. His voice sounds raspier and deeper than before. He has his hands clasped in front of him with an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, hello," Louis greets, giving a small smile. He steps closer to the younger boy. His eyes appear to be a few shades lighter. Before, they resembled dark forest moss, but now they're like a vibrant meadow in the middle of spring.

"Are you an officer?" Harry asks with a hint of confusion. He glances at the briefcase in Louis's hand with the Lancashire police seal on the front.

Louis shakes his head. "I'm a detective."

"Detective?" Harry says, eyes widening with surprise.

Louis bites his lip. "Yes, I— we met yesterday, remember? I interviewed you."

"No, you didn't."

"Of course I did. I can't forget someone as lovely as yourself," Louis laughs.

Harry blushes, tucking a few strands of brown hair behind his ear. "Thank you, sir, but we've never met. You must be mistaken."

Suddenly, Louis remembers what Cathy said about Harry having multiple personalities. Perhaps he detached from his Liam persona. Maybe he can't recall what happened. After all, if each identity has a different personality, they might have different memories as well.

"Oh," Louis says after a few seconds. He reaches out to shake Harry's hand. "I'm apologize for the confusion. My name's Louis Tomlinson. It's very nice to meet you."

" 'm Harry Styles," he greets with a pretty, dimpled smile.  Of course he has dimples.  Louis's heart melts.

"Harry," Louis repeats slowly, loving the way it rolls off his tongue. "Short for Harold?"

Harry giggles like a child, covering his mouth with his hand. "No, it's just Harry."

"Okay, just Harry. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"About what?"

"It's for an investigation," Louis explains briefly. He figures if each of Harry's personalities have different memories and experiences, perhaps only selective ones have witnessed abuse or neglect at the asylum. Maybe Harry's main personality will have more insight than his Liam identity. Perhaps Louis can use Harry's multiple identities to his advantage. He can understand various points of view from one individual.

"An investigation?" Harry chuckles, sitting on the edge of the fountain. He kicks a stray pebble with his foot. " 's quite boring here, to be honest. I don't have much to say about this place."

Louis cautiously sits down next to him, leaving a distant gap between them. "Can I interview you, then?"

Harry smirks. "Maybe. What's in it for me?"

Louis bites his lip and reaches down, snapping a white daisy from its stem. He tucks the flower in Harry's large hand. The younger boy smiles and twirls the small blossom, watching the yellow center spin around in circles.

Harry chuckles. "You're lucky I like daisies."

"Cheeky."

"Don't you have questions to ask me?"

"Right, sorry," Louis huffs, shaking his head fondly. "First of all, tell me about your life here at Whittingham Asylum."

"My life?"

"Yeah, y'know, tell me your daily schedule. What do you like to do for fun?"

Harry chews the inside of his cheek, biting thoughtfully. "I like to sing sometimes. I also like to play games with the other patients. Scrabble is my favorite."

Louis grins. "That's nice. Can you tell me about your interpersonal relationships— with other patients, nurses, staff members?"

Harry tenses up. Louis notices the slight bob of his throat, moving up and down nervously. The pale column of his neck looks like a canvas of porcelain, leading down to a pair of defined collarbones beneath his paper-thin gown.

"I have a few close friends here, but most people are scared of me," Harry admits quietly.

Louis falters. He can't imagine why someone would be terrified of an eighteen-year-old boy with curly hair and dimples. He seems like a gentle giant. Tall and broad, yet soft and delicate. He's a lovely contradiction.

"Why?"

"Sometimes people have bad experiences with Liam, Niall, and Zayn. It's _their_ fault, not mine. But it's just— it's _really_ frustrating because I have no conscious memory of what happened," Harry rambles, twisting his fingers in his lap.

"Oh," Louis says after a few seconds. "I'm sorry."

Harry waves his hand dismissively. "It's okay. I can't control it. Nobody can, for that matter. The trio are the ones who cause all the trouble."

"The trio?"

"That's what I call them— Liam, Niall, Zayn."

It's weird to hear Harry speak about his personalities as if they're separate people. As if they have their own bodies, their own soul, their own minds. It should probably make Louis scared or creep him out, but he just feels intrigued. He wants to crawl inside Harry's brain and understand his thoughts.

A small fraction of silence settles between them. Suddenly, the stain glass door squeaks open and a nurse steps inside, dressed in all white with a red cross on her hat. She has a head of golden curls and a perky smile, matched with rosy cheeks.

"Harry, you need to come take your medication," she greets with a high-pitched voice. "You had a therapy appointment at noon, remember?"

Harry's eyes widen, flickering his gaze between the nurse and detective. "Oh! Right, 'm sorry. I, um, I lost track of time."

The nurse chuckles. "It's okay.  C'mon, love."

Harry stands up from the fountain's ledge, smoothing out the wrinkles in his gown. He gives Louis a shy smile. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis nods as the green-eyed boy paces towards the door. "Likewise, Mr. Styles."

Harry blushes when the nurse places her hand on the small of his back to guide him, as if he's an incompetent child. Before he leaves, he giggles and tucks the daisy behind his ear.  

Louis stares out the stain glass door for a few seconds, lost in his jumbled thoughts.  Harry seems like a completely different person, but then again, he _is_ a completely different person.  Now, Louis can see the sharp contrast between his personalities.  Liam is shy and respectful and responsible, but Harry is endearing and cheeky and sweet.  

He sits next to the fountain until it starts raining, forcing him to leave and explore the darkened halls. 


	3. day three

The sound of faint, crackly, static-filled music plays through the speakers of an old radio. The song echoes throughout the asylum's tight hallways, amplifying as Louis approaches the room at the end of the north wing. His heeled boots click along the tiled floors, littered with small shoeprints and unidentifiable smudges. Dark mold collects in the corners of the walls, spreading downward like an infectious disease.

Briefly, Louis pauses in the middle of the hallway and snaps a picture of the dark, dreary corridor. His camera strap hangs securely around his neck, tapping against his chest in sync with his movements. He can hear the music growing increasingly louder when he approaches the final door, number thirty-six, which was left wide open. He glances inside subtly, squinting his eyes.

Patients in white gowns sit across the room around circular tables, scribbling with crayons on old, faded paper. Others are molding with dust-covered clay, creating pots, figurines, or various abstract shapes. Messy artwork decorates the bricked walls. Paint splatters scatter across the tables' wooden surfaces.

Sunlight streams through a nearby window, creating a rectangular patch of brightness on the reflective floor. Outside, a flock of blackbirds perch on a leafless tree, clinging to the oak's wooden skeleton. The sky is a light shade of grey, almost white, making the outside world appear gloomy and dreadful. For once, the asylum's interior seems more cheerful than the outdoors.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

Startled, Louis stands up straight and adjusts his suit, tugging on the hem to unwrinkle it. A red-haired nurse stands inside of the art room, staring at him with a curious expression. She's positioned next to a table of patients, but fortunately, they're distracted with their own unique works of art.

He clears his throat. "Sorry for eavesdropping. I was just, uh—"

"Relax," the nurse chuckles, walking towards him. She's young and beautiful with ruby lips and freckles. "Would you like to come see our patients' artwork?"

Louis smiles softly. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss."

"No need to be so formal. My name's Sandy."

Louis gives a soft, breathy laugh. "Thank you, Sandy."

She nods and beckons for him to follow. She walks back towards the circular table. A Rolling Stone's song plays on the radio nearby, resting on a windowsill. Louis looks over a patient's shoulder and examines his art. He's fairly old, probably in his forties, but he has the mentality of a child. He's scribbling like a toddler with wax crayons, creating messy tangles of reds and blues and greens.

"I'd like to apologize on behalf of the other nurses," Sandy murmurs. "I've noticed they've been giving you a hard time."

Louis just waves his hand dismissively as if it's no big deal. But truth be told, it _is_ a big deal. He's noticed the other nurses' lack of openness, lack of kindness, lack of respect towards him. It's beginning to interfere with his investigation. He feels like he's stuck at a dead end. He can't fulfill his responsibilities without their cooperation.

"But thankfully, we're not all stubborn," Sandy says cheerfully. "Personally, I actually think this investigation is a great idea."

"You do?"

"Of course. It'll bring attention to our financial problems. We need more government funding, sir, and you have a direct connection."

Louis frowns. He knows the asylum has more issues than a simple lack of money. It's abuse, neglect, and corruption. It's something dark and evil and secretive. Perhaps the asylum's low income creates undesirable living conditions, but Louis knows there's something _else_ happening here. He can sense it in the patients' lifeless, soulless, hopeless eyes.

Despite his doubts, Louis doesn't want to start an argument, so he just nods and tucks his hands in his pockets. He slowly circles around the table, observing various paintings, portraits, and messy sketches. He wonders how the asylum can afford art supplies but not proper meals. Clearly, their priorities are skewed.

"Would you mind if I looked around a little?" Louis inquires, feeling his curiosity crawling up his ribcage.

Sandy smiles warmly. "No, not at all. Feel free to interview patients as well."

"Thanks," Louis murmurs, nodding to show his gratitude. At least one nurse is somewhat tolerable and agreeable.

He hovers from table to table, looking over shoulders and examining pieces of art. Most of them are pretty minimal— yellow sunshines, green trees, red houses. He spots a younger girl, no older than twelve, painting a watercolor picture of an orange cat. She has her curly brunette hair tied up in a red ribbon. Her eyes are like two round bits of amber. Louis clears his throat.

"Is this seat taken?" Louis asks, patting the empty chair next to her.

The girl looks at him blankly and shakes her head.

Louis grins before sitting down. The old metal chairs are hard and cold, covered with doodles and engravings of profanity. "I'm Mr. Tomlinson."

The girl sets down her wet paintbrush. "I'm Carolyn," she says softly.

"Carolyn? That's a beautiful name," Louis muses. He glances down at her art— a fat, orange cat with a long tail and triangular ears. "I really like your painting."

Carolyn's lips quirk up in a small, barely-noticeable smile. "Thanks."

"Is it okay if I ask you a few questions, Carolyn?"

The little girl bites the corner of her mouth. "Why? Did I do something bad?"

"No, of course not," Louis assures, shaking his head. "It's just my job to make sure patients are happy here."

"Oh," Carolyn hums, nodding slowly. She picks up her brush again and flicks the wet bristles to distract herself. Orange paint flicks across the white paper. "I suppose it's fine, then."

"Thank you," Louis says gently, subtly reaching in the pocket on the inside of his jacket. He presses the start button on his small handheld voice recorder. He decides not to put it out on the table, in fear of scaring her or influencing her honesty. "Firstly, how old are you?"

She holds up both of her hands, displaying ten fingers. Her tiny palms are covered in paint smudges and clay dust.

"Ten?" Louis clarifies.

She nods enthusiastically. "I turn eleven next month."

Louis smiles so wide his eyes crinkle. He loves being around kids. They remind him of simpler times, when nothing really mattered except Sunday cartoons, racecar toys, and teddy bears. Even at the young age of twenty-five years old, Louis can't wait to settle down and have kids of his own.

"How long have you lived here, Carolyn?"

She stares down at the table to avoid Louis's eyes. "Just a few weeks," she mumbles quietly, barely audible.

"Well, have you enjoyed your time here so far? Does the staff treat you nicely?"

Carolyn's expression suddenly turns cold, as if a wave of icy water crashed into her like a tsunami. She scrunches her eyebrows and crosses her arms stubbornly.

"Why do _you_ want to know?" she snaps. "I don't have to tell you anything."

Louis pauses for a few seconds. Her sudden mood change catches him completely off guard. Her amber eyes have darkened to a cold shade of mahogany.

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. Did I say something wrong?"

"You're out to get me," she snarls, pointing her finger accusingly. "You want me gone, just like the rest of them!"

Louis frowns and shakes his head. "I don't want to harm you, Carolyn. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help all of the patients here, actually."

"Sure, that's what they all say," she grumbles.

Without saying another word, the young girl crumples up her painting before tossing it in the nearby rubbish bin. She sends Louis a sharp glare and leaves in a hurry, letting the art room door shut loudly behind her. Louis just sits in his seat for a few seconds, stunned, trying to recollect his thoughts.

He sighs as he grabs his voice recorder from his jacket, pressing the red button to end the session. Frustration surges through his veins. He wishes he could talk to a patient for hours on end without an interruption. He wishes he could _genuinely_ understand what's going on at Whittingham.

"I'm sorry about Carolyn," nurse Sandy says, brushing her delicate hand over Louis's shoulder. Her long nails are painted a dark shade of red. "She's schizophrenic— thinks everyone is out to kill her."

"She has schizophrenia?" Louis asks with bewilderment. "But she's so... young."

Sandy frowns. "I know, dear. It's such a shame. People typically develop signs of schizophrenia after puberty, but Carolyn is a rare peculiarity. That's why she's here."

"So her family just _abandoned_ her?" Louis scoffs.

"They visit on weekends," Sandy recalls. "It was impossible for them to take care of her. She had extreme temper tantrums and turned violent against her siblings."

Louis gulps. "But she seems like such a sweet girl."

"She is," Sandy agrees without hesitation. "But she's also ill. She says she constantly sees black shadows on the walls, thinks they're trying to attack her, and hears voices calling her name in the middle of the night. It's sad, really."

Louis's heart aches painfully. He wishes she didn't have to endure this as a young child, just ten years old. She's far too young to be plagued by her own brain.

"Can you treat her?"

"We're doing the best we can, but like I said, Carolyn's case is extremely rare," Sandy admits sadly. "All we can do is perform tests and give her new medications."

"Tests?" Louis repeats, growing suspicious. One of the former patients accused the asylum of performing inhumane tests and experiments on people without their consent. Some of them were borderline torture, like electric shocks or choking with wet towels. Although none of these "experiments" were actually proven, the accusation still remains drilled in Louis's memory. "What kinds of tests?"

Sandy tilts her head. "I'm afraid that's classified information, Mr. Tomlinson."

"I'm an investigator hired by the court, ma'am," Louis says, clenching his jaw with impatience. "By law, you need to tell me the truth."

The nurse stays quiet for a few seconds. The sounds of patients chatting, pencils scribbling, and papers shuffling fill the silence. Louis almost forgets they're surrounded by people with mental disabilities, clinging to art as their only form of expression.

"I'm just a nurse and art instructor, sir. You'll have to speak with one of our psychologists about our research efforts," she says in a monotone voice, as if she's repeated that phrase countless times.

"Right," Louis says, clearing his throat. "Of course."

The detective stands up, deciding he should explore other parts of the asylum. Clearly, he's at another standstill. Nobody seems to be willing to help.

"Oh, wait," Sandy blurts hurriedly, grabbing his wrist. "I want to give you something."

She quickly walks over to a nearby shelf and grabs a folder filled with patient artwork. The asylum's name is scribbled across the front of the file in beautiful, cursive handwriting. She places it in Louis's awaiting hands.

"These are just a few of my favorite pieces done by our patients," Sandy explains, smiling with scarlet lips and pearly white teeth. "We have some very talented people here. Perhaps you could use it for your investigation, yeah?"

"Thank you," Louis says genuinely, tucking the folder in his leather briefcase. "I really appreciate it. You've been very helpful."

"Of course. Stop by anytime, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis waves a farewell and steps out of the art room, returning once again to the dreary, empty hallway. He inhales a sharp breath of courage and begins walking towards the west wing. He feels continuously drawn to this section of the asylum. Perhaps it's because the more independent patients are easier to converse with. Maybe it's because he feels attracted to the mystery. Or, simply, maybe it's because of Harry.

He soon stumbles across Harry's room, number 253, with the metal door shut and locked. The numbered plaque is coated in rust and grime. All of the patients' doors have small square windows, allowing nurses to survey them constantly. Louis squints his eyes and stands up on his tip toes to look inside.

It's completely empty. His bed is messy and unmade, with his white sheets and grey blanket pushed towards the end of his thin mattress. The barred windows allow light to filter in the room, illuminating the dust floating through the air. He has a few personal belongings on a shelf against the furthest wall— a brown teddy bear, an art sketchbook, a plastic shot glass with a green shamrock, and a book ( _White Fang_ by Jack London, according to its label).

Deciding Harry must be somewhere else in the asylum, Louis huffs and sits down on a nearby bench. He crosses his legs and pulls out the art folder Sandy gave to him. He opens it up and cards through its contents. It's filled with messy paintings of sunrises, childish scribbles, and mindless doodles. He finds a watercolor paintings with Carolyn's name at the bottom of the page, depicting an orange cat with evil red eyes and blood on its paws. Louis bites his lip uncomfortably and decides to ignore it.

Eventually, he discovers something remarkable. He finds a beautiful colored pencil drawing, styled like graffiti, with bubbly letters and cute cartoons. It spells out "ZAYN" in all capital letters. Louis can't help but smile at the adorable superhero drawing in the corner of the paper. It only takes him a few moments to realize this was drawn by Harry— or rather, drawn by his Zayn personality.

"You found my art."

Louis's heart leaps in his chest. His eyes widen with surprise as he looks up to see Harry standing a few feet away, wearing a white gown and cotton slippers. His hair is messy and unruly as it cascades down his shoulders. His arms are crossed over his chest in an accusatory manner. His eyes are dark and dilated, much darker than before— the same color as the ivy crawling up the asylum's exterior walls.

"Oh, hello," Louis says awkwardly, clearing his throat. "You must be Zayn."

"How'd you find my art?" Harry demands with a soft, yet threatening, voice.

Louis gulps. "Nurse Sandy gave it to me for investigative purposes."

A smirk tugs on Harry's bubblegum lips. "Ah, I see. So you must be Mr. Tomlinson, right? I've heard of you. You're a detective or summat?" he chuckles, giving Louis a slow once-over. He can feel his gaze burning into his skin. "Thought detectives were 'sposed to be big and strong."

Louis frowns, closing the folder. He sticks it back in his briefcase and shuts the latch. "For your information, I'm one of the best detectives in the country, Har— I mean, Zayn."

Harry snickers. Louis can't decide whether he likes his Zayn identity or loathes him. He seems quiet and isolated but not afraid to speak his mind. It's quite a large shift from Harry's quirky, adorable, bubbly personality.

"Pardon me, but I should really go," Louis mumbles, standing up from the bench. He doesn't want to make Harry even angrier than he already has. He picks up his briefcase and begins walking away, but a cold, bony hand clamps down on his wrist.

"No, wait," Harry pleads. He leans in closer, so his lips nearly brush against his ear. Whatever he wants to say, he obviously doesn't want others to hear. "Can we talk in private? I have lots to say about this shithole. I think I could be helpful to your investigation, sir."

Louis feels a spark of hope ignite in his heart. This is just what he needs— evidence, witnesses, accusations. Just _something_ to prove that Whittingham asylum isn't all sunshine and rainbows. He feels like he's one step closer to finding a deep, dark secret. One step closer to saving hundreds of tortured lives.

"Okay," Louis hums, turning around on his heel. Harry keeps his hand wrapped around Louis's petite wrist for a few more seconds than necessary. "Should we chat in your room?"

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says, lowering his voice. "They have cameras in there. Follow me. I know somewhere _truly_ private."

Louis reluctantly follows Harry down the darkened corridor, trying to act natural. He doesn't want to draw any attention from curious nurses. Abruptly, Harry turns down a sharp corner and glances around, making sure there aren't any witnesses. He slips in the janitorial closet with Louis following closely behind.

They're nearly chest-to-chest in the confined walls, invading each other's personal space. They're surrounded by cleaning chemicals, mops, buckets, and dirty sponges. In retrospect, perhaps the asylum should keep this closet locked up. It's probably not a smart idea to allow mentally unstable patients around dangerous chemicals, like bleach or ammonia. Louis adds that to the asylum's growing list of safety violations.

Harry reaches upwards and grabs the silver beaded string hanging between them. He pulls it to switch on the light. The dull, dust-covered bulb above them flickers and fills the closet with dim yellow light.

"They'd probably kill me if they knew I was telling you this," Harry admits softly. "But rebellion is what I do best, after all."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Who's _they_?"

"Everyone. The staff," Harry clarifies. "I don't have much time before the nurses realize I'm gone, so I need to make this quick."

Louis hurriedly reaches in his pocket and switches on his voice recorder. He needs evidence. He needs to ensure the patients' safety, including Harry's.

"They treat us like animals, sir. It's inhumane," Harry begins, tucking a stray bit of brunet hair behind his ear. "I can't tell you how many times I've been beaten, slapped, nearly choked to death. How many times I've been deprived of food. How many times they've sent me to the psychologist's room to work on his dumb experiments. This place is the closest thing you'll get to Hell on earth."

Louis's heart aches. If Harry (or Zayn, rather) is telling the truth, then he _needs_ to get this place shut down. He'd never be able to live with himself if he let Harry suffer any longer.

"I'm so sorry, Zayn," Louis says sadly. "I'll do the best I can to help you."

"Please," Harry begs, grabbing his hand. His skin feels dry and cold, almost like ice. "You're our last hope. We don't need better living conditions; we just need _freedom_."

"Zayn, I—"

"I have to go," Harry chokes out, reaching for the door handle. "You don't know what they'll do to me if they find me in here."

"Wait—"

"I'm sorry. I wish I could stay longer, but it's too dangerous," he mutters.

With that, he wipes his wet eyes with the back of his hand, smearing tears down his reddened cheeks. He walks out of the janitorial closet with ease, slipping back into a sea of soulless patients in white gowns. Louis waits for a few more minutes to recollect his thoughts. The scent of artificial lemon-scented cleaner begins to burn his nostrils.

Eventually, he reaches in his pocket and stops the recording session. He quickly exits the janitorial closet and finishes up his day wandering the halls mindlessly. He takes pictures of the asylum's poor conditions, briefly interviews the main cook in the cafeteria, and tries his best not to think about Harry. Tries not to think about his gorgeous dimples. Tries not to think about his raspy voice. Tries not to think about his kissable lips.

-

Later that evening, Louis walks back to his hotel and collapses on his freshly-made bed. The sheets still smell like laundry detergent. The room's walls are painted a horrid shade of yellow, almost too cheerful for his liking. The pillows are too stiff, making his neck sore, but he can't complain. Staying at shitty hotels during long investigations is part of his job, after all.

As he lay in bed, he remembers the look of pure fear on Harry's face. He recalls his desperation, his sadness, his tragic hopelessness. Although his Zayn identity is supposedly the most "rebellious," he just seems like a misunderstood boy who suffered immensely in his past.

He falls asleep with a heavy heart, wishing he could give Harry the freedom he deserves.


	4. day four

The rusty door hinges squeak open as Louis walks into the main office. There's a long, wooden desk against the furthest wall. An old woman with white hair shifts through a stack of overflowing files and folders. Her circular-lensed glasses teeter at the tip of her nose. Her face is long and narrow and filled with wrinkles.

Framed photographs and metal plaques decorate the eggshell walls. One photo in particular catches Louis's attention— the original Whittingham Asylum constructed in the late 1860's. The old building was made of bricks and stone, standing only two stories tall. It was surrounded by an iron fence and thriving flowers.

The old asylum burned down at the turn of the century, causing its temporary closure and reconstruction. The police had suspected incendiary, but the arsonist was never found. The new building, which still stands today, is much larger and extravagant. It holds upwards of five hundred patients. It draws in sick people from around the country and across borders, despite its poor reputation

Louis frowns at the old, faded photograph. He blinks a few times before turning towards the desk, standing in front of the white-haired lady. She doesn't look up from her paperwork until Louis awkwardly clears his throat.

"Oh, hello," she smiles, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "You must be Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis nods. "You must be Mrs. Emmerson," he notes, eyeing her nametag.

"I am indeed. How can I assist you?"

"I was wondering if I could see a patient's file." Mrs. Emmerson raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "For investigative purposes, of course," he clarifies.

"Why do you need it?"

"I'm afraid that's classified, ma'am."

"Right," she hums. Her pallid, chapped lips press into a thin line. Everything about her is pale, from her skin to her clothes to her ashen eyes. "What's the patient's name?"

"Harry Styles," Louis says sweetly. His name makes his heart swell.

She glances up from the stack of vanilla-coloured folders. "Harry Styles?"

"Yes."

A look of concern crosses over her face. She seems scared, perhaps, as if the very sound of his name sends her into a state of pure fear. Maybe he has a bad reputation.

"He's dangerous," the woman says softly, carding through the organized files in alphabetical order. Her bony fingers curl around Harry's folder, which is significantly fuller than the others. She slides it across the desk into Louis's awaiting hands.

"Thank you," Louis murmurs. He tucks the file under his arm, frowning. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you think he's dangerous? Did he do something?"

Mrs. Emmerson sighs quietly. "Harry's a sweetheart sometimes, but one of his personalities is manipulative and dangerous. Deadly, even."

"Zayn?"

"Yes, I believe that's what he calls it."

"What did he do?"

The woman leans back in her squeaky, leather chair. She shuffles the files to straighten them again. "Everything you need to know is in there," she says, eyeing Harry's folder.

Louis nods briefly to show his gratitude. "Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate your help."

Mrs. Emmerson smiles as the detective leaves the office, letting the door click shut behind him. The office connects to a wide, open lobby near the front entrance. Patients in white gowns scatter across the tiled floors, sitting on benches and wandering around cluelessly. Barred windows reveal the asylum's garden with overgrown weeds and vine-covered fences. The blank sky is as grey as smoke and as dull and lusterless as coal.

A patient with ivory skin and round, marble eyes watches Louis's movements as he walks through the foyer. Her hair is frizzy and short, bobbed just above her knobby shoulders. She wears the asylum's signature white uniform, which hangs loosely on her thin, withered body. Her face is slim and hollow, making her cheekbones prominent. She wears a pair of thin, cotton slippers on her small feet.

Louis ignores her burning stare and continues pacing through the lobby. Eventually, he sits down at a bench and crosses his legs. He pulls out Harry's file and flips it open, revealing a stack of papers and confidential forms. The label on the folder's tab reads _Styles, Harry_.

The first paper, wrinkled and faded, was written on a typewriter. It's a copy of his birth certificate. Louis narrows his eyes and scans down the page. Apparently Harry was born on the first day of February in 1949, making him eighteen years old. The hospital was located in Cheshire. His parents are called Anne and Desmond. His middle name is Edward, which makes Louis smile slightly. It suits him. Very posh.

He sets his birth certificate aside and looks at another form. His name is written at the top in smooth, cursive writing. It's a list of his diagnoses.

_Dissociative Identity Disorder_

_Clinical Depression (suicidal tendencies)_

_Chronic Anxiety Disorder_

_Intermittent Explosive Disorder_

_Achluophobia_

Louis stares at the long list and frowns. He knew Harry had multiple personalities but didn't know he had other diagnoses as well. A dense feeling of sadness settles heavily in his chest.

He flips through the papers, finding nothing but psychological jargon and medical prescriptions. Eventually, he stumbles across a form with a police seal in the upper left corner. It's a document regarding Harry's arrest in October of 1964. He was only fifteen years old.

According to the police report, he was arrested for destruction of property. He reportedly shattered some of his school's windows with bricks and stray rocks. He also trespassed after school hours with some of his mates and vandalised the rooms with paint. There are a few photos attached with a paper clip, showing the damage.

The first picture reveals shattered windows and jagged glass. The second shows one of the vandalized classrooms. The desks are all tipped over, and the chalkboard is covered with spray-painted profanity and random symbols. He can't imagine Harry being capable of such a serious crime. He's young and innocent and sweet and bashful.

But perhaps it wasn't Harry who caused all this damage. Maybe it was one of his other personalities. An evil, cruel identity who possessed Harry's mind and forced him to commit these horrible, illegal acts.

He slides the page aside to reveal an old, clipped news article. The crinkled paper feels dry and dusty beneath his fingertips. Louis's stomach drops as he reads the headline: _Holmes Chapel Teenager Arrested for Domestic Gun Violence._

_Fifteen year old Harry Styles was arrested on December 8, 1964 after shooting his father, Desmond Styles, in the right leg with a pistol. The family chose not to press charges and have agreed to send Harry to a psychiatric facility in Lancashire._

_The shooting occurred after a domestic dispute in their home. According to his parents, Styles had been showing signs of insanity and mental instability. He was also arrested in October for vandalism and trespassing._

_Desmond is currently hospitalized and in recovery. He is expected to survive and be released next week._

_"We are shocked and angered by the actions of our son," says Harry's mother, Anne Styles. "We are committed to ensuring the public's safety by placing him in a mental hospital."_

_Harry will be staying at Whittingham Asylum to be examined by a psychiatrist. If found mentally stable, his criminal punishments will be arranged with the rest of the Styles family._

Louis feels his mouth run dry as he finishes reading the article. He can't believe his eyes. He finds himself blinking in total silence, covering his mouth with his hand. He re-reads the article again, and again, and again until the words are permanently engraved in his brain.

His throat seems to close up as he sets the folder aside, resting it on the bench. He puts his head in his hands and sighs deeply. He stares at his lap and tries to recollect his thoughts.

Perhaps Harry isn't who he thought he was. Maybe he's truly a monster.

~~~

It was a cold, frigid day in 1964. Harry walked along the pavement with his boyfriend, Nick, whom he'd been dating for two months. Snow fell around them lightly, peppering their clothes in flakes of white. The brisk wind brushed against them and toyed with Harry's pretty curls. His cheeks were a beautiful shade of pink.

"I had a really good time," Nick confessed, clasping Harry's hand in his own. He swayed their arms back and forth. His chocolatey hair was styled messily, forming loose waves that framed his pale face. His eyes were a beautiful combination of brown and green, almost like moss.

"We should go to the theatre more often," Harry giggled.

In the distance, he could see his house with its snow-covered front lawn. The white siding seemed to blend into the wintery landscape. The wooden porch squeaked as they walked up the unstable steps. Nick released Harry's cold hand and smiled down at him. He was a few inches taller and three years older, but Harry didn't mind the age gap. He liked being the younger, more innocent one. He liked feeling protected.

Nick lifted his hand to touch Harry's jawline, feeling his icy skin. Harry bit his lip shyly. Nick smirked and leaned forward, closing the gap between their lips.

The front door swung open. "Harry," a deep voice growled.

The two boys instantly separated. Harry looked up with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. His father, Desmond, stood in the doorway with a frown spread across his lips.

"Get inside," he grumbled, grabbing his son's shoulder.

Nick huffed. "Sir, we were just—"

"I know what you were doing," Des spat bitterly. "Now get off my property."

Nick sent Harry a sympathetic glance before walking away with his head hung low. His boots crunched over the snow-covered ground. Harry watched him longingly before his father dragged him inside. He winced at his tight, violent grip. The door slammed behind them, rattling.

"Dad—"

"I told you to stop seeing that boy," his father said loudly, pointing a finger into his chest. "You're still grounded for vandalizing the school. You're not allowed to leave the house. You directly disobeyed us."

Harry whimpered fearfully in the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, but I told you it wasn't me! I didn't do anything wrong. It was Zayn!"

His father rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Stop talking like a crazy person, Harry."

"I'm not crazy, Dad!"

"Then don't act like it."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "This is why I snuck out. Nick actually loves me for who I am. He loves _all_ of me, unlike you!"

Desmond frowned. "I don't dislike you, Harry. I'm just concerned for your sanity."

Harry clenched his teeth and brushed his curls out of his eyes. "It's not my fault! It's Zayn's fault and Liam's fault and Niall's fault!"

His father grabbed his shoulders and shook him urgently. "They aren't real, Harry! They're bloody hallucinations!"

He pinched his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands. "Shut up!"

"Listen to me, son! They're not real!" his father nearly shouted. "And neither is your love for that Grimshaw lad. Men can't love other men. It's disgusting."

Harry shook his head, wet tears slipping down his reddened cheeks. "No, _you're_ disgusting!"

His father's expression twisted up in frustration. Angry creases formed in his forehead. "Don't speak to me in that tone."

Rather abruptly, a switch went off in Harry's brain, and he suddenly wasn't himself anymore. He became Zayn— rebellious and dangerous and furious. His pupils dilated and eyes darkened. He could feel his natural self drifting away, being pushed to the back of his mind. Harry scowled and spat in his father's face, causing him to let go of his shoulders.

Desmond cursed and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. He stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at his son with pure hatred. "You're gonna regret that," he warned.

Harry pushed against his barrel-bellied stomach and scampered away, rushing down the narrow hallway. The sides were lined with photographs and old, floral wallpaper. He ran into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He wished he had a lock. Before he could barricade the doorway with furniture, his father entered like a raging bull.

"Apologize to me this instant, Harry!" he yelled.

The curly-haired boy chuckled. "My name's not Harry. It's Zayn," he said darkly. His voice was dry and raspy, having lost its sweet, delicate tone.

"You're crazy, son. You need help," Des said firmly.

"I'm not your son!" Harry nearly screamed, balling up his fists.

Before Desmond could react, Harry reached underneath his mattress and pulled out a handgun. It was small and black, fully-loaded. He aimed it directly at his father's face, finger ghosting over its trigger. Tension hung thickly in the air as his dad stared in shock. He held up his hands slowly in submission, mouth slack.

"Where did you get a gun?" he asked quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Harry snickered. "None of your business, old man."

"Ha—"

"My name's not Harry!" he shouted, tightening his grip on the gun. His hands began to tremble slightly, barely noticeable. His face twitched with vexation.

"Just put down the gun," Des said calmly, taking a step towards him.

"Make one more move and I'll shoot," he warned.

Desmond froze in his tracks. His body shook visibly with fear. Harry was thankful his mother was still at work, leaving the house all to themselves. He had nowhere to run, nobody to save him. The perfect opportunity. 

Harry laughed darkly. "You think I'm crazy, huh?" he taunted. "I'll show you crazy."

He pointed the gun at his thigh and pulled the trigger, feeling nothing but satisfaction. 

~~~

Presently, Louis wanders around Whittingham Asylum with his briefcase clutched in his hand. He spends his day avoiding Harry, in fear of the unknown. He can't stop thinking about that article. What kind of child shoots his own father?

He walks throughout the hospital and takes photographs. He's constantly in a state of secret paranoia, always searching for long brown hair and piercing green eyes. The detective can't help but feel scared of the eighteen year old. He thought he was as delicate as a rose, but he was clearly wrong. He's more like poison ivy. 

When the end of the day approaches, Louis begins heading towards the asylum's exit. As he passes by the library, he notices Harry standing inside near a shelf, looking at the multi-coloured books. His white gown is loose and large on his body, hanging crookedly off his shoulder. His skin looks soft and pale and smooth. Before Louis can leave, their eyes meet like magnets.

Harry's smile widens. His doe eyes are bright and sparkly. "Hello, Mr. Tomlinson!" he greets, waving enthusiastically. "Remember me? I'm Liam."

Louis stares blankly. Part of him wants to get to know him, to crawl inside his brain and understand him. He wants to save him. On the surface, he seems so kind and gentle. 

But no matter how sweet and innocent he acts, he's still the same boy who shot his father. 

Louis ignores him and keeps walking, leaving the stunned boy behind. 

 


	5. day five

When the early sun peeks above the horizon, Louis is still wide awake in his hotel room. He feels physically and emotionally drained. He barely slept at all overnight, kept wide awake with thoughts of Harry and nightmares of inexplicable horrors. His bones feel heavy with utter exhaustion. He sits up in his lumpy bed and rubs his eyes tiredly.

His hotel room is small and square, just two blocks away from the asylum. It's a sharp contrast to the dreary aura of Whittingham. The hotel is annoyingly cheerful and bright and sunny, with mustard-colored walls and large windows.

He glances at his gold watch on the bedside table. He narrows his eyes and sees it's only 5:37 in the morning. He doesn't have to be at the asylum until 8:30, so he has almost three hours to spare. Three hours to recollect himself.

With stiff joints, he stands up dizzily. He stumbles into his bathroom and strips off his pajamas. The cold tiles feel like ice beneath his small feet. He takes a quick shower in the old tub, listening to the hissing pipes. The hot spray of water soothes his sore muscles and aching bones. As steam clouds around him, fogging up the mirrors and glass, he sighs with relief.

He uses the hotel's complimentary shampoo and conditioner. When he's freshly clean and relaxed, he steps out of the loo and wraps a towel around his waist. Whilst he dries off, he sits on the edge of his bed and pulls out Harry's file again. He can't help it. He's nosy.

Eventually he finds a document signed by someone named Dr. Huang. There's a list of incidents caused by Harry, dated and described in great detail. It's a log of his behavior. Louis feels his heart thud in his chest. His lethargic eyes scan down the flimsy piece of paper.

_February 5, 1965: The patient seems normal and healthy. Played with the younger patients all day on the playground. Cheerful and happy._

_February 8, 1965: The patient claims to be someone named Liam. Kept quiet and reserved, but he seemed to follow rules and take his time responsibly. Spent his day in the library. Doesn't talk much._

_February 9, 1965: The patient has returned to his normal state. Doesn't remember yesterday. It seems as though each personality has separate ideas, thoughts, and memories._

_February 14, 1965: The patient claims to be someone named Niall. Very carefree and promiscuous. Was caught snogging a female patient in the janitorial closet. Currently in solitary confinement to face punishment._

_February 16, 1965: The patient was released from solitary. He claims to be Harry again. Says he can't recall kissing someone and getting caught. Woke up dazed and confused._

_February 28, 1965: The patient claims to be someone named Zayn. Stabbed another patient with a butter knife in the cafeteria. Was given the towel treatment as punishment and became unconscious._

_March 1, 1965: The patient claims to be himself again, but he seems quieter and more depressed. Family hasn't visited since his arrival._

_March 8, 1965: The patient attempted suicide in his room. Shattered a glass cup and used the shards to cut himself. Currently in solitary confinement._

The page ends abruptly. Louis assumes the doctor either stopped recording his data or simply gave up on Harry, dubbing him as hopeless. He stares at the last entry for a minute or two, feeling tears welt up in his eyes. He tries not to imagine Harry in such a broken state. He had no family, no friends, nobody to love. He thought ending his life was the only escape.

Then again, he did shoot his own father in the leg. Perhaps his family had good reason to keep their distance.

He pulls at his hair with frustration. He wishes he had enough evidence to end the investigation three days early. He's tired of walking through the same halls, seeing the same people, and not finding any new information. He feels like he's stuck at a dead end. Deep down, he knows there's something sinister going on at the asylum. Something dark.

But unfortunately, he can't exactly convince the court's judge with a gut intuition.

At 7:00 exactly, the phone in Louis's hotel rings loudly, startling him. The phone is a bright shade of red, almost like a cherry. He picks it up, causing the coiled cord to stretch. He holds it near his ear and furrows his brow.

"Hello?"

"Detective Tomlinson," a voice answers, rough and husky. He immediately recognizes it as his boss, the chief of police.

"Mr. Richards," Louis greets, "what a delight."

"How's the investigation coming along?"

Louis pauses, absentmindedly tracing the tacky pattern on his blanket. "I've found significant evidence of neglect," he begins, voice syrupy slow. "Mold, vermin, cockroaches. Don't even get me started on the food."

His boss hums. "That's great, Detective, but the majority of complaints were about physical abuse. That's our main focus."

"I know," Louis says, maybe a little too quickly. "It's just— none of the patients are cooperating with me. 's like they all have some deep, dark secret."

"It's your _job_ to find evidence, Mr. Tomlinson. I don't care how. I want facts. I need proof to shut down that shithole once and for all," his boss says, raising his voice.

Louis bites his lip shamefully. "I know. I'll find evidence soon. I promise, sir. I won't let you down."

His boss sighs quietly, muffling the speaker. "People's lives are at stake, Detective. Don't forget that."

Louis doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to respond.

"Get to work, Mr. Tomlinson."

He hangs up without another word, leaving nothing but static. Louis gulps nervously and puts down the phone. He stares out the window in silence for a few minutes, trying to recollect his thoughts. He watches white clouds roll across a sheet of bright blue. He wonders what Harry is doing right now— probably sleeping.

He wants to forget about him and move on with his life (and the investigation), but he can't. He's infatuated with him. He knows he's dangerous and unstable and a bit crazy, but something about him keeps bringing Louis back. Maybe he's addicted to the mystery.

Louis sighs and glances back at Harry's file. He opens it again and flips through the stack of papers. He finds several medical prescriptions, ranging from a controversial antidepressant called phenoperidine to harmless antibiotics.

When Louis sets the prescriptions aside and glances back at Harry's folder, his heart skips a beat. The next page withdrawals the oxygen from his lungs. It's a medical report with a list of injuries. An old, faded photograph is attached with a crooked paperclip.

The picture shows Harry standing in front of a brick wall, face forward. He has a busted lip and a bit of dried blood on his chin. His left eye is swollen shut, black and blue, and he looks scared and confused and lost. He has a bit of blood on his cheek, starting at his hairline and dripping downward.

Louis places his hand over his mouth, shocked. He immediately starts reading the written descriptions. It's written by the asylum's psychologist and physician, Dr. Huang. His messy handwriting is unmistakably familiar.

_Harry Styles, age 17_

_Styles was found alone in his room with several injuries caused by another patient. He had a black eye, bloody lip, and a patch of hair missing from his scalp. When he was discovered by a nurse, he was nearly unconscious. Styles has been given painkillers along with his daily psychotics. He is expected to make a full recovery._

Louis glances back at the photograph with deep sadness and anger. How could someone hurt Harry like that? He was barely seventeen at the time, scared and vulnerable, unable to defend himself.

This piece of paper is the closest evidence Louis's found to point to abuse. Perhaps it wasn't another patient who hurt Harry. Maybe it was a member of the faculty— a nurse, a janitor, or maybe even Dr. Huang himself. If he could just gain Harry's trust again, he could understand what went wrong.

But, alas, he was kind of an arsehole last time they saw each other. Back then, he was ignorant and shocked and still absorbing everything he read in that newspaper article. He still didn't know Harry's side of the story.

At least, not yet.

~

Louis arrives at Whittingham Asylum fifteen minutes early, but nobody seems to mind. He walks through the squeaky front door to find the scent of warm oatmeal and burnt toast. Nearby, patients clothed in white gowns eat breakfast in the crowded cafeteria. The quiet murmur of friendly conversation fills the air.

The detective clutches his briefcase and continues walking down the hallway. The patients no longer give him weird stares or questioning gazes. They've all become accustomed to seeing him on a daily basis. He's just another boring face in the crowd.

He begins walking towards Harry's room, in need of answers and explanations, but he stops abruptly at the courtyard. He stares through the stained glass door and sees Harry sitting on the ledge of the fountain, legs crossed. He has a bowl of oatmeal in his hands, but he's not eating it. He's just staring at it with puppy dog eyes, sad and lonely.

Louis straightens his jacket, tugging on the hem once, and walks inside. The air feels significantly warmer and humid outside, but Harry doesn't seem to mind. His gown is made of light cotton and fits him loosely, keeping him cool in the midst of heat.

The older man shuts the door quietly and steps over the green grass. Around them, colorful flowers line the bricked walls. Freshly-trimmed hedges and trees create a false sense of wilderness. Above them, the sky is as blue as the pretty forget-me-nots in the garden. A few butterflies flutter around them, searching for nectar.

Louis clears his throat. "Hey," he greets shyly, not knowing how to address him.

Harry looks up shyly, eyes soft and vibrant green. His glossy lips are a beautiful shade of bubblegum pink.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Tomlinson," he says, smiling so wide he shows dimples.

He's too outspoken to be Liam, and he's too kind to be Zayn, and even though he hasn't met Niall's personality yet, he's known for being quite the Irishman. With these thoughts in mind, Louis comes to the conclusion that this is Harry. His true self. His lovely, beautiful, cheeky self.

"Hey, Harry," Louis grins, sitting next to him. The fountain trickles behind them, collecting in a pool at the bottom of the basin.

"How'd you know it was me?" Harry asks, clearly surprised. "Most people don't know how to distinguish between my identities."

Louis shrugs nonchalantly. "I pay attention to details."

"Well, thank you, sir," Harry says, pink rising to his cheeks. "It's nice to have someone actually... care."

Louis chuckles dryly. "It wasn't that hard to narrow it down. It was quite obvious you weren't Liam, honestly. I was kinda a twat towards him last time."

Harry furrows his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"You don't remember?"

"No, I— I never remember anything about my other personalities," Harry admits quietly, as if he's ashamed or embarrassed. "It's like I have four different sets of memories, y'know?"

Louis nods slowly in response. It's completely fascinating.

"But I'm sure Liam deserved whatever you did to him," he laughs awkwardly.

Louis bites his lip. "No, he— he didn't deserve it. I'm sorry. I was a total prick. I just read something about you and I was scared, but now I realize I was being really judgemental. I wasn't fair to you— and Liam."

Harry's eyes widen slightly. "You read something about me?"

"In the newspaper."

Harry's throat bobs slowly. "It was about me shooting my father, wasn't it?"

Louis frowns. "I— yeah."

Harry ducks his head sadly, staring at the bowl of cold, lumpy oatmeal in his lap. "It was Zayn's fault, not mine. He did it," he admits, pinching his eyes shut to hold back tears. "But my father is a terrible man. I'm glad Zayn shot him. I'd never have the guts to do it myself."

Louis's heart races in his chest. He looks at him, completely startled.

"Like a lot of people, he was homophobic," Harry continues, voice low and raspy, on the verge of tears. "He used to beat me and slap me whenever I went out with my boyfriend."

Louis inhales a sharp breath of surprise. "You have a boyfriend?"

"I _had_ a boyfriend," Harry murmurs, twirling the metal spool around his bowl. "He never came to visit me here. The last time we saw each other was the night Zayn shot my father."

Louis bites his lip. "If you have different memories for each personality, how do you remember what happened?"

Harry shrugs. "I saw the article in the newspaper."

Louis can practically feel his heart shattering, breaking into bits of broken glass. "I'm sorry," he says gently, placing his hand on Harry's leg. The hem of his gown falls mid-thigh, leaving the rest of his milky skin exposed. He feels soft and warm. "You deserve better. Any boy would be lucky to call you his boyfriend. And your dad sounds like a bigot."

Harry flushes, a smile tugging on his lips. "Thank you, Detective."

"You can call me Louis."

"Louis," Harry echoes, smiling fondly.

A small fraction of silence passes between them. Birds chirp musically in the distance. Suddenly, Louis grabs his briefcase and puts it on his lap. He unlocks the metal clasps and opens it up, revealing a messy stack of papers. He pulls out Harry's folder and sighs.

"I got your file from the main office," he says softly.

Harry's eyes widen. "Oh, I—"

"For investigative purposes," he clarifies. Harry raises an eyebrow suspiciously. The detective continues, "Listen, Harry. You're my strongest lead so far. You're the only patient who's willing to open up to me. It's my job to find evidence of abuse and neglect, and I need you to help me. I need you to help me save lives."

Harry blinks in silence for a few seconds. "I want to help you, sir, but nobody's going to believe a few quotes from a crazy person."

"So you've witnessed abuse, then?"

Harry swallows the lump in his throat. "Yeah, you could say that," he mumbles.

Louis nibbles on the inside of his cheek. He needs to be direct. "Have you ever been hurt by any of the asylum's staff, Harry?"

The green-eyed boy casts his gaze downward, focusing on the soft grass beneath his bare feet. He fiddles with his fingers for a few seconds. "Yeah," he croaks, voice cracking. "I've been pushed and shoved a few times. Sometimes I wake up and find bruises and scratches on my body, but I can't remember what happened. My other personalities like to cause trouble— especially Niall and Zayn."

Louis reaches into his pocket and finds his voice recorder. He presses the play button and sets it on the concrete ledge of the fountain. "I'm sorry, Harry. I really am. I want to help you and get you out of here, but first, I need you to be truthful," he assures. He opens Harry's file and finds the old Polaroid photograph, which shows Harry in a horrible state. He's covered in blood and bruises. He points to the picture and frowns. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

Harry stares at the photo for a moment, unblinking. Tears shimmer in his eyes. "I don't remember what I did to deserve it," he whimpers. "When I woke up that morning, there was a nurse standing at the foot of my bed. I asked her why she was in my room, and she got angry. She kept calling me Niall, so I guess he did something to piss her off. She said I kissed her and lead her on. So... she beat me."

Louis's chest tightens. It takes him a few seconds to process the information.

"But Dr. Huang said you were beaten by another patient," he recalls.

"That's what I told him," Harry sighs, slumping his shoulders. "They wouldn't have believed me if I said I was beaten by a nurse. She quit the next day, anyway."

Louis stares into his eyes. They're delicate and green, like a pretty meadow in the spring. He wants to get lost in them.

"Thank you for telling me," Louis says firmly. "I'll get you out of here. I promise."

Harry lights up with hope. "Really?"

"Really," Louis hums, nodding. "I just need to somehow get solid evidence. I have to catch a faculty member in the act. The court may refuse to believe quotes from insane patients, but they can't dispute photographic proof."

Harry nods in agreement. He glances around the courtyard for a few seconds, admiring the flowers and shiny windows. When he looks back at the detective, he has dimples in his cheeks and a sparkle of aspiration in his eyes.

"I think I may have a plan."


	6. day six

The plan was so simple and yet, simultaneously, its complexities and moral difficulties turned Louis's brain into a confused maze. He knew it was risky. Harry could end up severely injured (or worse). He knew it might put his career on the line as well. But despite all these apprehensions, he was more than willing to follow Harry's crazy scheme in hopes of saving him and hundreds of other patients.

Whittingham Asylum wasn't a heavenly place for healing, hope, and medical treatment. On the contrary, it was an establishment of greed and carelessness and cruelty. It was Louis's job to reveal the hospital's true colors. He could practically feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. If he failed to supply evidence to the court, the abuse claims would be disregarded and all charges would be dropped.

He couldn't fail. He _wouldn't_ fail. He promised Harry he'd help him escape from this dark, dreary place of torture.

Detective Tomlinson was always true to his word.

With these thoughts in mind, Louis walks into the asylum on the sixth day of the investigation with a false smile plastered on his face. His briefcase feels heavy in his hand as if it's filled with rocks. A thin layer of sweat glistens on his forehead from the summer sun. He rubs his face with his handkerchief and continues walking through the main lobby.

The tiled floors shimmer in the early morning sunlight, freshly-polished and swept. The wide expanse of space feels empty and eerie as Louis walks in silence. Nearby, patients eat breakfast in the cafeteria. The air smells like warm maple syrup.

Louis grins and tips his hat at one of the nurses passing by. She's petite and blonde, complete with pink cheeks and long lashes and blue eyes. Her white dress fits snug around her waist and bust. She's carrying a tray of plastic cups towards the cafeteria. Louis assumes they're filled with pills.

It's no secret that some of the nurses have tried to win Louis's heart over the past six days. They're all so obvious and unapologetic— undoing the top buttons on their dresses to show off their breasts, biting their lips, and slipping sexual innuendos into their professional conversations. It was flattering at first, but now it's becoming an annoying distraction.

His chest feels tight, like his heart has swelled with nervousness. He hopes Harry's plan works. It's his last hope at saving all the patients from endless abuse and neglect.

In the courtyard one day prior, Harry had plotted a grand scheme in his head to expose one of the notoriously abusive nurses, Susanne. She hated Harry with a burning passion. More specifically, she hated his Zayn personality.

A few months ago, Zayn had stolen a tube of her red lipstick and used it to draw a messy doodle on his wall. He couldn't help himself. He really loved drawing, but the asylum never let him go to the art room after he stabbed another patient with scissors. He needed a creative outlet. Although he loved the artistic outcome, Susanne was furious when she realized what he'd done. She slapped him and called him names and even threatened to kill him.

All because of a tube of lipstick. Harry had laughed ironically whilst telling the story, but Louis didn't find it funny. Not one bit.

Ever since that day, Susanne has abused Harry on a regular basis, both verbally and physically. No matter how many times Harry got a bloody lip or a black eye, nobody at the asylum believed him. He was crazy, after all. Crazy people liked to lie.

So now, Harry wants to expose her. He told Louis about his tactical plan: he'll put a voice recorder in his pocket and pretend to be Zayn. If she snaps and hits him or taunts him, he'll capture it all on the recorder. Louis would finally have indisputable auditory proof.

But it's risky, of course. If Susanne becomes  _too_ angry, it could end badly. It could be more than a weak slap across the face.

Louis sighs and wanders around the asylum like a mindless zombie. He takes photographs of the darkened hallways and ghost-like patients. They all walk around sluggishly, as if there are weights chained to their ankles.

No matter how hard he tries, his mind keeps drifting to Harry. He told Louis he could handle this on his own, that he needed to be alone, but that doesn't make it any easier. His skin itches in anticipation. He keeps pacing around the west wing of the asylum, casually glancing at Harry's closed door with the crooked numbered plaque. He imagines Harry sitting at the edge of his bed, waiting patiently for Susanne to arrive with the voice recorder tucked in his waistband, hidden out of sight.

The detective rubs his forehead tiredly and forces himself to walk away, telling himself that he can't be selfish. This plan doesn't just affect Harry. It affects _all_ of the patients at Whittingham Asylum. He can't ruin their only chance with his strange possessiveness.

Pinching his eyes shut, Louis walks away with his head hung low, listening to the steady sound of his echoed footsteps.

-

Around lunchtime, Louis sees Susanne heading towards the west corridor. He immediately recognizes her from Harry's detailed descriptions: tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and pale skin with a mole on her left cheek. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her face looks as cold as stone.

Louis watches her from a cautious distance as she goes from door-to-door with orange vials of pills. When she finally goes to Harry's room, her expression turns even colder. She's in charge of delivering medications to patients on a daily schedule. It's her job to take care of patients, and yet she does nothing but torture and manipulate them.

The detective curls his fists in anger, and he wants to go in and protect Harry, but then he remembers his words.

 _I need to do this on my own, Mr. Tomlinson. Just trust me_.

Louis frowns and sits on a nearby bench, just down the hall from Harry's room. He shuffles through some papers to look busy.

Eventually, he hears muffled shouting from inside, but he can't decipher the exact words. His hairs stand on end. Every instinct tells him to go in his room and defend Harry, but he can't. Harry wanted to do this, after all, despite Louis's protests. He knew he would inevitably get hurt, but he was willing to risk everything to save all of Whittingham's innocent patients.

A few minutes later, the shouting stops abruptly. Louis can hear his heart thudding in his chest, pounding like a drum, but nobody around him paid attention to the loud yelling. It's normal to them, he assumes. They've become accustomed to hearing painful screams and screeches of insanity.

Susanne walks out of Harry's room with a sick grin plastered on her face. Louis digs his nails into his palms with anger. He wants to run after her and give her a piece of his mind, but he can't. At least not yet. It would be pointless, after all. His job is to gather evidence, not to punish those who've done wrong. He'll leave that for the court to decide.

When she walks into another room, shutting the door behind her, Louis springs up from the bench at the speed of a bullet. He closes the latches on his briefcase and rushes into Harry's room without knocking. He gasps audibly when he sees Harry sitting at the edge of the bed with his hand cupping his jaw, blood dripping from his bottom lip.

Despite his injury, he smiles at Louis.

"Hi, Mr. Tomlinson," he croaks weakly. He reaches under his white gown and grabs the voice recorder with a widening smirk. "I got your evidence."

Louis feels like he could cry. He wraps his arms around Harry and hugs him tightly, nuzzling his nose into his soft, curly hair. His skin feels warm and as soft as silk. This is the first time he's been this close to Harry, he thinks. They're chest-to-chest. He can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against him.

"I'm so proud of you," Louis whispers softly, pulling back slightly. He brushes a few stray pieces of hair out of his forest green eyes. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine," Harry assures, wiping the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. "Do you think you'll be able to get me out of here now?" He places the voice recorder in Louis's awaiting hand.

The detective smiles softly. "Of course. I promised you I would."

Harry sniffles and blinks away his tears. They're emotional tears, though— not derived from pain. He stopped feeling physical pain years ago. Over time, he got used to being hurt by his abusive father and the asylum faculty.

"After I get out of this loony bin, do you want to out to dinner with me sometime?" Harry asks bashfully, blush rising to his cheeks. "I'd like to thank you for helping me. For not giving up on me like everyone else."

Louis nods quickly without hesitation. His tummy flutters. "Of course, Harry. I'd love to."

Harry grins shyly and hugs Louis again, feeling his facial hair scratching against his cheek. He smells like hotel cigarette smoke masked with expensive cologne. He never wants to let go. He feels safe in Louis's strong, muscled arms.

"Thank you," Harry whispers quietly.

Louis leans back a little bit, creating a small gap of space between them. He lifts up his thumb and slowly rubs off the dried blood on his lower lip.

"No," Louis says softly, staring into his eyes. "Thank _you_."

-

Later that night, when Louis returns to his hotel room, he listens to the recording alone in his bed. At first he hears faint rustling, a door clicking open, and then crackled voices. He holds up the device to his ear.

_"Hi, Susanne."_

_Light footsteps. "Shut up and take your pills," she says in a strong Scottish accent._

_Harry laughs darkly. "Why should I do what you say?"_

_"Because I'm in charge."_

_"Says who?"_

_"Says me. I'm in charge, Harry."_

_"I'm not Harry. I'm Zayn."_

_He's completely lying, but clearly Susanne believes him. She stays quiet for a few seconds before scoffing._

_"Don't be a little brat," the nurse scolds. A bottle of pills rattle as she shakes them. "Are you going to take your bloody pills or do I have to force them down your throat like last time?"_

_"I don't know," Harry says smugly. A few seconds of quietness passes between them. "Do you think you're strong enough to hurt me?"_

_"I don't think. I know."_

_"Oh, really?"_

_"Really."_

_"Prove it, then."_

_A loud rustling noise erupts. Skin slapping. Harry grunts in pain. A loud thump is heard, signaling that Harry fell to the floor._

_"I'm so sick and tired of you little brats treating me like shit!" she says loudly. Harry whimpers in pain. "I work my arse off every day and you have the_ audacity _to disrespect me?"_

 _"I'm sorry_ —"

_A loud smack._

_"Please!"_

_Another smack._

_"Don't bother yelling for help," Susanne says darkly, her voice low and sinister. "Nobody cares about you. Not in this shitthole. Your own parents won't even visit you." She laughs._

_There's a loud crunching noise, the sound of her fist colliding with Harry's jaw. He whines in pain._

_Plastic hits the floor and clatters, indicating that she carelessly dropped the vial of pills. Without another word, Susanne leaves. Her footsteps slowly fade into silence._

The recording ends and Louis stares in shock for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. He tries not to imagine Harry crying on the floor in pain. Part of him feels guilty, even though the plan was Harry's idea in the first place. But deep down, he knows no amount of argumentation would have persuaded his courageous soul. He was determined.

The auditory evidence is completely indisputable, as well as Harry's physical battle scars from the event. Louis feels proud. He finally found a little shred of hope. Perhaps he can shut this hellish place down after all.

Smiling to himself, Louis picks up the hotel room's old phone and dials his boss's number. It rings three times before he finally answers.

"Hello?" Mr. Richards says, voice as dry and rough as sandpaper.

"It's Detective Tomlinson," Louis replies calmly. "I have evidence." 


	7. day seven

To Louis's complete surprise, his boss was pleased to hear about the audio evidence. He even agreed to pay him a visit the following day to review his case. After a week filled with stress, confusion, and frustration, maybe things were finally looking up. 

The next morning, Louis walks into the asylum with a bittersweet feeling settling in his gut. Part of him feels happy because he knows he might be able to save hundreds of patients from neglect and abuse. That's something to be proud of. But at the same time, he's going to miss seeing Harry on a daily basis. He's going to miss wandering around Whittingham Asylum with a briefcase in hand, searching for a head of messy brunet curls and piercing green eyes. 

He's going to miss a lot of things about Whittingham Asylum, most of which revolve around Harry Styles. 

The overwhelming scent of maple bacon swirls through the air as Louis walks in the front door. The temperature feels colder inside. Above him, a vent in the ceiling blows out a steady stream of frosty air. 

Bright sunlight filters through the windows and glistens on the polished tiles in the main lobby. Around him, lifeless patients in white gowns move around sluggishly like brain-deprived zombies. Despite the sunny weather and intense heat outside, the interior of the asylum seems gloomy and cold. Louis can't help but feel a bit uneasy.

He immediately walks towards Harry's room, in fear of bumping into Susanne. If he saw her, he wouldn't be able to control himself. He'd probably scream in her face and call her every obscenity imaginable. Just thinking about her, his fists curl with anger.

He casts his gaze downward as he maneuvers through the maze-like hallways. He doesn't want to draw too much attention to himself and, more importantly, doesn't want to come face-to-face with Susanne. He needs to be calm, cool, and collected. This is his final day of investigation and he can't lose his temper. 

Louis tries to ignore the burning feeling of protectiveness in his gut. He tries not to think about Harry's pained whimpers on the recording. Harry doesn't _belong_ to him, after all. He shouldn't feel this defensive, but it's like an incurable itch under his skin. In his mind, anyone who threatens or jeopardizes Harry's safety is an enemy. 

The detective clears his throat before pausing in front of Harry's door, number 238. He raises his hand to knock and takes a deep breath of courage. He feels awkward and nervous, like a little kid speaking to his first crush. He taps his knuckles against the door three times, soft and gentle, lest he accidentally startle Harry. 

"Just a second!" Harry calls from inside. His voice is as sweet as sugar and as smooth as syrup. Louis wants to drown in it. 

He opens the door a few moments later. He has a cute smile on his face, dimples and all, showing a row of pearly white teeth. His lips are a light shade of pastel pink, like chewed bubblegum. A faint dust of red covers his blushing cheeks. 

He's wearing a white hospital gown, as per usual, with the oversized sleeves scooping down his exposed shoulders. The gown falls just below his knees with faint ruffles in the paper-thin fabric. On his feet, he wears a pair of white socks. 

"Hi," he greets, tucking a few stray curls behind his ear. "I missed you."

Louis's heart jumps in his chest. "You did?"

"Yeah. It gets pretty lonely around here," Harry admits with a shrug.

Louis bites his lip. "You know today is my last day of investigation, right?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry pauses for a few seconds before nodding. "Yeah, I know," he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. "That's why I wanted to do something special."

Before Louis can ask any questions, Harry steps aside to reveal a cute makeshift picnic set up in in his room. A scratchy old blanket is sprawled across the floor, covering up the hard tiled floors. Somehow, he managed to snag some food from the cafeteria. Two ceramic plates sit atop the blanket with scrambled eggs and bacon, as well as two glasses of orange juice. A small vase rests in the center containing a few flowers from the courtyard— white daisies, red tulips, and yellow dandelions.  

It's so thoughtful and adorable. Louis kind of wants to cry.

"Harry," he exhales, staring with awe. "This is so sweet. Thank you."

Harry smiles bashfully as Louis steps inside. He closes the door behind him, giving them some much-needed privacy. 

"I know our cafeteria food isn't the same as a fancy restaurant, but—"

"I love it," Louis promises, squeezing Harry's hand with reassurance. "I really love it. Thank you, Harry." 

Harry grins, beaming proudly. "I even picked you some flowers from the courtyard."

"They're beautiful," Louis hums, sitting on the blanket with crossed legs. He sets his briefcase aside and picks up one of the daisies, twirling the stem between his nimble fingers. "They're almost as beautiful as you."

Harry giggles with embarrassment before sitting on the floor across from Louis. The detective notices how his gown rises up even further, revealing more of his pale thighs. His body is curvy and chiseled at the same time. He's a contradictory masterpiece. 

Resting on top of a paper napkin, he has a fork and a spoon. For obvious reasons, the patients aren't allowed to have knives. Louis grabs his fork and takes a bite of the scrambled eggs. They're far too salty and a bit squishy, but he can't really complain. He shouldn't have expected anything more. It's an asylum, after all, and the staff couldn't give two shits about their patients. 

"I know the food's kinda gross," Harry laughs awkwardly, biting a strip of overcooked bacon. He even _chews_ adorably, like a munching baby bunny. "I've kinda just gotten used to it, I guess. I've forgotten what real food tastes like."

Louis gives a sympathetic smile. "When I get you out of here, I'm taking you to the best restaurant in London. I'll let you order anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Yeah, anything."

Harry takes a slow sip of orange juice and stares at the hem of his gown, avoiding eye contact. "So you'll keep visiting me, right? Until I can actually leave?" he asks timidly. "I just— I'm afraid I won't see you again. I don't want this to be our last day together." 

Louis frowns and caresses Harry's hand, smoothing his thumb over his palm. A look of seriousness crosses over his face. Despite his eye's icy color, they're surprisingly warm and comforting. "Of course. I want to keep seeing you, Harry. I really appreciate what we have."

Harry glances at their hands before looking up, meeting the detective's gaze. "What we have?"

Louis gulps nervously. He's tip-toeing into treacherous territory, but he doesn't care. He's tired of being "professional." He's tired of resisting Harry and pushing his feelings aside.

"I'd really like to take you out on a real date," Louis confesses. "I'd hold your hand and kiss you and treat you right. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

Harry's eyes twinkle with delight. "That sounds lovely, Louis."

"You're lovely," the detective says with a smirk. "You're one of the loveliest people I've ever met. I know it's only been a week since we met, but I just— you fascinate me. You make me feel happy. You remind me why I became a detective in the first place."

Harry bites his lip curiously. "And why's that?"

"To save people like you," Louis says softly. "To take helpless people and make them feel hopeful again." 

Unexpectedly, Harry leans forward and presses his lips to Louis's cheek. It's soft and sweet and short, barely lasting more than two seconds, but Louis's mind explodes with fireworks. His lips feel like smooth silk against his rough stubble. 

When Harry pulls back, he has bright eyes and fluttery lashes. "You're my hope, Louis."

Louis can still feel the warmth of Harry's lips on his cheek. He never wants it to fade.

"I won't let you down, Harry. I promise."

-

One hour later, Harry cleans up their food and sets their empty plates and silverware aside. He grabs the blanket in a tangled mess and tosses it on his bed. His mattress is thin and seemingly uncomfortable, bulging with metal springs. The bed frame is made of cold, rusted iron. 

Afterwards, they sit next to the barred window and chat about nonsense. They talk about Harry's homophobic father. They talk about his neglectful mother. They talk about his shitty ex-boyfriend who never bothered to visit after he was admitted to the hospital. They talk about everything. 

It's nice, Louis thinks, to have a better understanding of Harry's life. Seven days prior, Harry was a big mystery waiting to be solved. Now he's starting to open up to him. He trusts him.

Plus, Louis is a really great listener. 

"The personalities started when I was about thirteen," Harry says, changing topics. He absentmindedly picks at his fingernails to distract himself. 

Louis is just sitting next to him quietly. He nods to show that he's listening, that Harry has nothing to be ashamed of. This topic was bound to come up sooner or later. He isn't listening as a detective anymore. Now, he's listening as a friend. 

"The first identity was Liam," he continues, voice low. "I didn't really understand what was happening back then. It just kinda felt like I just was going unconscious. But then, my family and friends started talking about things I supposedly did but couldn't remember. It was—scary."

"The second identity was Niall. I woke up in bed with a stranger— a girl named Leah. She kept calling me Niall and told me that we met at a bar. I was really... confused. I never liked girls, and I never got drunk enough to have a one night stand. Especially not at age fifteen."

Harry takes a deep breath before continuing. "And the final identity, of course, was Zayn. He, um. He appeared for the first time when he shot my father."

Louis takes a few seconds to process it all. He chews on the inside of his cheek, not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "Have your episodes gotten better since you've been admitted here?"

"No," Harry answers instantly. "Actually, they've gotten worse."

Louis frowns. He places his hand on Harry's thigh, squeezing gently. His skin feels surprisingly smooth and warm. 

"Harry?"

They both look up to see a blonde nurse standing in the doorway. She's carrying a tray with little plastic cups filled with pills. She has brown doe eyes and petite lips, curled up in a friendly smile. Thankfully, she doesn't notice the way Louis awkwardly pulls back his hand. 

"It's time to take your medicine, love," she says sweetly, handing him a tiny cup of pills. There are three total— a white tablet, a green tablet, and a pink capsule. Harry takes it slowly and holds it in his palm, staring at them blankly.

Louis's investigative instincts get the best of him. "Do you mind telling me what these medications are for?" he asks. 

The nurse bites her lip. "Sorry, sir, but I'm not entirely certain. The doctors are the ones who prescribe them. I just deliver them," she confesses. "But I think the white one is an antipsychotic. Almost _all_ of the patients take that one on a daily basis." 

Louis slumps his shoulders. He wishes she could give him more helpful information. Before he can make a snarky comment about the nurse not being able to do her job properly, there's a loud scream outside in the hallway. The blonde nurse sighs. Controlling screaming patients is just part of her everyday routine, but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Shit, I've gotta take care of this," she says in a hurry. She flees Harry's room and shuts the door behind her. 

Harry huffs. "Whittingham service with a smile, right?" he says sarcastically. 

He grabs his half-empty glass of lukewarm orange juice and takes the white tablet. But before he can pop it into his mouth, Louis clamps his hand over his wrist. Harry raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Let me see that."

Harry blinks with confusion. "Pardon?"

"Let me see the pill, Harry." 

Harry sighs before reluctantly placing it in his hand. Louis narrows his eyes at the pill, squinting. Then he presses the tablet to his tongue and licks it. Harry gasps.

"Louis, what are you doing?"

"I knew it," Louis says, crinkling his nose with anger. 

"Knew what?"

"They're placebo pills."

Harry furrows his eyebrows. "Again, _what_?"

"They're made of sugar, Harry. No wonder you haven't gotten better since you've been admitted here. They don't even give you real medication, for fuck's sake," he scoffs, shaking his head with disbelief.

Harry just stares. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I think I know why, too," Louis grumbles. "If Whittingham's patients don't get better, then they have to say here at the asylum. Their families have to keep giving money to the hospital. It's an inhumane, selfish tactic to get rich." 

Harry scoffs. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Louis grabs the pills and takes a plastic evidence baggie from his briefcase. He places them inside and closes the seal. "I'll take these to the lab later to make sure, but I'm certain they're placebos." 

Harry shakes his head, staring at his lap with an empty stare. "I can't believe this," he says, voice cracking with vulnerability. "What if they'd given me _real_ medication? I could've gotten out of here by now! I could've lived a normal life!" 

He starts crying. It's messy and angry and tragic. Warm tears slip down Harry's cheeks as he trembles in frustration. Louis can do nothing but wrap him up in his arms and let him sob against his shoulder, allowing his tears to fall on his suit. 

"I'm so sorry," Louis hushes, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You don't deserve any of this, love."

"I just don't u-understand," Harry hiccups, pulling away. He rubs his watery eyes and sighs. "I want to g-get better, Louis. I want _real_ medication. I don't like sharing my body with the other identities. I wanna be normal. I wanna be normal with _you_."

"It'll be okay," Louis promises. "You'll be okay. We'll be okay."

Harry sniffles and cups Louis's face with his hands. His palms feel as cold as ice. "You should go now, Louis. Show your boss all the evidence. Save all of us as soon as possible, okay?"

Louis nods wordlessly. He kisses Harry's cheek, leaving his lips to linger on his skin for a few seconds longer than necessary. 

"Okay," he agrees, standing up. 

Harry stands up as well and his eyes start to water again. His bottom lip trembles. "I just—don't wanna say goodbye," he says, clutching Louis's smaller hands.

"This isn't goodbye," Louis promises. "I'm gonna visit you. I'll visit you every day until you're free. I swear." He crosses his heart.

Harry still looks doubtful. "That's what my parents told me, too, but I haven't seen them in years."

"I'm not like your parents, H," Louis says quietly, brushing his thumb over Harry's damp cheek. "I'll be back before you know it. Just be strong for me, alright?"

"Alright." Harry nods towards the door. "You should get going now, Detective. Show everyone that we deserve better. That I don't belong here."

Louis nods in agreement. He gives him one last hug, wrapping his strong arms around his waist. He feels warm and smells like vanilla. He can feel Harry smiling against his shoulder and his curls tickling his chin.

"I will," Louis hums, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Take care, Styles."

He leaves Harry's room without another word, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.


	8. epilogue

Leading up to its official closure, Louis visited Whittingham Asylum on a regular basis. Every day, he took the train to see Harry and unwind after a long shift at the office. They grew increasingly close and learned a lot about one another.

Harry learned that Louis likes his tea with milk and no sugar. He's also a massive football fanatic, a human rights activist, and a proud mummy's boy. He's passionate about drama and theater and Elvis Presley. He doesn't like the sound of his own voice on tape. He hates wearing socks in the summertime.

Louis learned a lot about Harry, too. He has a strong sweet tooth. He sounds like an angel when he sings. He's clumsy and walks like a baby deer on ice. He's emotionally sensitive, likes taking artistic pictures of random household objects, and hates the word "crazy."

He also likes kisses on the cheek, holding hands, and being the little spoon.

Their makeshift "dates" consisted of brief strolls through the courtyard and watching reruns of _I Love Lucy_ on the asylum's old television. Of course, they were always cautious of showing public displays of affection, in fear of being seen. It was the 1960's, after all. Homophobia and anti-gay hate crimes ran rampant in the streets. So they waited, patiently, until they could finally be free at last.

On a cold day in November, Whittingham Asylum was forcefully shut down on multiple accounts of abuse, neglect, and fraud. When investigators discovered financial reports that left £49,000 of hospital profits unaccounted for, the head matron, Elizabeth Parker, was also charged with embezzlement. By order of the court, Whittingham's patients were relocated to multiple neighboring hospitals. The National Health Service claimed temporary ownership of the Whittingham psychiatric facility until further notice.

When Whittingham was shut down, Harry was transferred to a psychiatric facility called Horton Asylum in the outskirts of London. Unfortunately, traveling from Lancashire to London took nearly three hours by train and nearly quadrupled the cost of the fare. As a result, their regular visits were cut down to once per week.

Regardless, Horton Asylum was an absolute paradise compared to Whittingham. The nurses were kind and treated Harry with respect. The food was delicious and prepared by real chefs, not random employees in hairnets. He had a comfy bed, a large room, and a nice roommate named George with severe arachnophobia and claustrophobia. The doctors at Horton Asylum started giving Harry real antipsychotics and antidepressants— not the fake ones made of sugar.

He started attending therapy sessions to deal with his past trauma and issues with his father. It wasn't easy for him to admit that his identities were coping mechanisms, but he came to accept it eventually. Recovery wasn't easy, but he was committed. He wanted to take control of his life again. He wanted to be himself again.

After two months, Niall's identity disappeared, the weakest of the lot.

After six months, Liam's identity followed suit.

And after one year of consistent treatment and mental dedication, Zayn stopped showing up as well.

When Louis heard the news over the phone, he felt so happy he cried. He boarded the next train to London and surprised Harry with a plateful of cupcakes and a dozen kisses.

-

"So you're really going home?" George asks softly, sitting at the edge of his mattress.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room, leaving a gap between them. George's blue eyes stare into Harry's with sadness. They've become close friends over the past year or so. Having a roommate made Harry feel a little less lonely. Plus, he always gave Louis and Harry privacy during their visits. He respected their relationship and befriended Louis, too.

Harry just bites the inside of his cheek and nods. "Yeah, I really am."

"Wow," George sighs, dropping his gaze to the ground. "I'll miss you."

Harry smiles sadly. "I'll miss you too, mate," he admits. He sits next to George and wraps an arm around his shoulder. "We can still be pen pals, right? I'll write you a letter as soon as I get settled in."

George pouts and picks at his dull fingernails. "I'm happy you're healthy now, but at the same time I wish you didn't have to leave," he mumbles. "I'm jealous."

Harry frowns. "You'll get better soon. Don't worry."

George looks up sadly. Despite being seventeen years old, he has the face of a young child. He has plump lips, pudgy cheeks, and a head of shaggy blond hair. His uniform is probably a size too large, swallowing his limbs with white fabric. Horton Asylum's clothes have proven to be much more comfortable than the scratchy gowns at Whittingham.

"You think so?" George asks apprehensively.

"I know so," Harry assures, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "People like us have to stick together, yeah?"

"Yeah," George echoes, smiling faintly.

"And when you get out of here, you're more than welcome to come visit Louis and I," Harry promises, showing his dimples.

His heart flutters at the thought of living with Louis. He can't wait to be a cutesy domestic couple. He can't wait to cook meals for him and live a normal life. And more importantly, he can't wait to be liberated from the suffocating grasp of insanity.

"You're gonna live with him?" George asks apprehensively, raising an eyebrow.

Harry laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, I am. I don't have anywhere else to go. My parents don't care about me, and Louis offered to let me stay with him. He has a flat on the coast near Blackpool."

He remembers Louis showing him pictures of his tiny apartment. It's absolutely perfect. He even has a balcony that overlooks the Irish sea. He also has a fluffy black cat named Buttons.

Harry looks down at his possessions on the floor. The asylum gave him a burlap bag filled with all of his belongings— the clothes he wore upon his arrival, a leather journal, an old pen, a hardcover copy of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , and two packs of chewing gum. He has no money or food or family. He only has Louis.

"I need a job," Harry muses, biting his lip. "I need to pay for all of my medications. I'm taking three different kinds, twice daily."

George's jaw drops. "Three? Jesus Christ, mate. I'm only taking an anxiolytic once per day and it makes me feel rubbish. I can't imagine how you must feel."

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. "I feel sleepy a lot, but it's worth it. I don't have to share my body with _them_ anymore. It's... liberating."

His roommate nods understandingly. A few seconds of silence pass between them. Harry glances out the nearby window which, thankfully, isn't closed off by iron bars like the ones at Whittingham. The cloudless sky is plagued by grey dullness. Flurries of light snow twist through the crisp December air.

"You're gonna be great out in the real world," George says abruptly, noticing Harry's slight apprehension. "Don't worry. You'll have your boyfriend by your side, right?"

Harry smiles timidly and blushes at the thought of Louis. They hadn't discussed official labels, despite being together for over a year, but Harry was oddly okay with it. Louis didn't need to be his partner or boyfriend or lover. He was just Louis. _His_ Louis.

"Right," Harry says after a few moments.

Suddenly, a young woman knocks on their half-opened door. Harry looks up and smiles at the nurse. Her name is Claire and she's the prettiest, kindest, loveliest nurse he's ever met. He'll miss her when he's gone.

"Are you ready to leave, Mr. Styles?" she asks quietly, resting her delicate hand on the doorknob. Her long nails are painted a lovely shade of red.

Harry smiles enthusiastically. "Yeah, 'm ready."

Claire waits patiently whilst Harry bids farewell to his roommate. He doesn't hug him in fear of triggering his claustrophobia, but George just grins and gives him a short nod of approval. It's a nod that means, _good luck_.

Harry grabs his bag and throws it over his shoulder. He follows Claire to the main lobby and stares out the front door, admiring the beautiful landscape and the freshly-fallen snow. Freedom is so close he can taste it. His heart thuds like a drum against his ribcage.

    Everything feels like slow motion. He's waited for this moment for _years_. He was trapped in a world of abuse for so long he almost forgot what it's like to be free. He's nervous, of course, but he knows Louis will guide him every step of the way. He doesn't have anyone else, after all. Not his parents. Not his ex-boyfriend, Nick. Not anyone except the kind-hearted detective who stole his heart.

    "Hey, love."

    Harry glances up from the floor to see Louis standing near the entrance, smile spread across his thin pink lips. The backlight from the nearby window illuminates his body angelically. His caramel hair is swept messily across his forehead. He's wearing a pair of black trousers and a teal button-up shirt that compliments his eyes. His cream-coloured trench coat nearly falls to his knees, tied securely around his waist.

    "Lou," Harry exhales, falling into his embrace.

    Louis's strong arms curl around him protectively. He smells like comfort and warm apple cider. He presses a light kiss to the top of Harry's head.

    "You're coming home today, babe," he murmurs, voice low and gentle.

    Harry's eyes start to water as he pulls back from the hug, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. "I know," he says, sniffling. "I can't believe it. I thought I'd be trapped in that hellhole for eternity. And now I— I can be happy again. Happy and free."

    Louis hums. "You deserve to be happy."

    Harry blinks in amazement. Louis is _so_ good to him. He's become accustomed to other people treating him like he's nothing.

    "It's all thanks to you. You saved me," Harry assures. "You saved _all_ of us."

    Louis blushes with pride. He remembers why he became a detective in the first place— to help people. To bring hope to hopeless people like Harry.

    Claire coughs to attract Harry's attention. She stands close by with a clipboard in her hands, displaying a white paper form. She passes Harry a pen and smiles.

    "We just need your discharge signature, and then you're free to leave, Mr. Styles. You can pickup your medication from your local pharmacy in a few hours."

    Harry nods and shakily scribbles his signature across the bottom of the page. His vision is blurred with tears of joy.

    "Thank you," Claire sighs, tucking the clipboard under her arm. "I won't keep you waiting any longer. I'm sure you're eager to leave."

    Harry laughs as Louis swings an arm over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm ready."

    The nurse smiles and unlocks the front door, yanking it open. A gust of cold air sweeps inside. Harry's green eyes glow with wonder and delight. He hasn't seen the _real_ outside world in ages. He's been confined to gloomy views through barred windows and barricaded courtyards.

"C'mon," Louis says softly, grabbing one of Harry's trembling hands. He brushes his thumb over his palm to calm him down. "Let's go home. I brought my car this time."

Harry nods in agreement and walks outside into a vast world of liberation. The air smells cleaner. The sun looks brighter. The snow-covered ground feels soft beneath his shoes. The harsh wind nips at his nose and tints his face pink.

Without hesitation, Louis takes off his coat and wraps it around Harry's shoulders. Harry giggles and thanks him with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

They walk towards Louis's car with their hands interlocked. It's a light blue '57 Chevy with white-rimmed tires. They climb inside and glide into the soft leather seats with ease. Louis turns on the ignition, causing the engine to purr loudly in the cold winter air.

Harry takes one last glance at the asylum, staring at the large bricked building through the window. The glass is coated in a thin layer of frost. He presses his palm against it and sighs with relief, feeling the melting ice beneath his skin.

"Ready, darling?" Louis asks, raising his brows.

Harry nods fervently. "Of course."    

They drive away from the asylum quickly and swiftly, leaving all of Harry's demons behind.


End file.
